Nnrtli  Olarnltna  BtnU 


This  book  was  presented  by 

Charles  A.    Poe 


THIS  BOOK  IS  DUE  ON  THE  DATE 
INDICATED  BELOW  AND  IS  SUB- 
JECT TO  AN  OVERDUE  FINE  AS 
POSTED  AT  THE  CIRCULATION 
DESK. 


THE   BOOK  OF  A   NATURALIST 

W.     H.     HUDSON 


THE  BOOK  OF 
A  NATURALIST 

■BY 

W.H.HUDSON 

Author  of 

"The  Naturalist  in LaPlata'* 

**Grecn  Mansions  "etc. 


NEW  ^tW   YORK 
GEORGE  H.  DORAN  COMPANY 


COPYRIGHT.  1919 
BY  GEORGE  H,  DORAN  COMPANY 


PRINTED  IN  THE  UNITED  STATES  OF   AMERICA 


PREFACE 

It  is  necessary  that  a  book  should  have  a  title,  and 
important  that  this  should  be  descriptive  of  the  book: 
accordingly,  I  was  pleased  with  my  good  fortune  and 
myself  when  I  hit  upon  one  which  was  not  merely 
descriptive  but  was  attractive  as  well. 

This  was  a  long  time  ago  when  these  studies, 
essays  and  sketches  of  animal  life  began  to  accumu- 
late on  my  hands  and  I  foresaw  the  book.  Unhappily, 
long  before  my  book  was  ready  my  nice  title  had 
occurred  to  some  one  else  and  was  duly  given  by  Sir 
E.  Ray  Lankester  to  his  Diversions  of  a  Naturalist 
— a  collection  of  papers  on  a  vast  variety  of  subjects 
which  had  been  appearing  serially  under  another  title. 
I  was  very  much  annoyed,  not  only  because  he  is 
a  big  man  and  I  am  a  little  one  and  my  need  was 
therefore  greater,  but  also  because  the  title  appeared 
to  me  better  suited  to  my  book  than  to  his.  He  deals 
with  the  deep  problems  of  biology  and  is  not  exactly 
a  naturalist  in  the  old  original  sense  of  the  word :  one 
who  is  mainly  concerned  with  the  "  life  and  conversa- 
tion of  animals  "  and  whose  work  is  consequently 
piore  like  play  than  his  can  be,  even  when  it  is 
Science  from  an  Easy  Chair. 


vi       THE  BOOK  OF  A  NATURALIST 

What  then  was  I  to  do,  seeing  that  all  possible 
changes  had  been  rung  on  such  general  titles  as 
Journals,  Letters,  Notes,  Gleanings,  and  what  not,  of 
a  Naturalist?  There  was  no  second  string  to  my 
bow  since  Recreations  had  already  been  used  by  my 
friend  J.  E.  Harting  for  his  book.  In  sheer  despera- 
tion I  took  this  title,  which  would  fit  any  work  on 
Natural  History  ever  published.  Doubtless  it  would 
have  been  an  improvement  if  I  could  have  put  in 
the  "  Field  "  before  "  Naturalist  "  to  show  that  it  was 
not  a  compilation,  but  the  title  could  not  be  made 
longer  even  by  a  word. 

Some  of  the  chapters  in  this  volume  now  appear 
for  the  first  time;  more  of  them,  however,  are  taken 
from  or  based  on  articles  which  have  appeared  in 
various  periodicals :  the  Fortnightly  Review,  National 
Review,  Country  Life,  Nation,  the  New  Statesman, 
and  others.  I  am  obhged  to  the  Editors  of  the 
Times  and  Chamhers*s  Journal  for  permission  to  use 
two  short  copyright  articles  on  the  Rat  and  Squirrel 
which  appeared  in  those  journals. 

W.  H.  Hudson. 


CONTENTS 

HAPTtE 

PAGE 

I 

Life  in  a  Pine  Wood  .... 

1 

II 

Hints  to  Addee-Seekebs   . 

.        15 

III 

Eats 

.       33 

IV 

Beauty  of  the  Fox   .... 

60 

V 

A  Sentimentalist  on  Foxes     . 

.       55 

VI 

The  Discontented  Squirrel    . 

.       63 

VII 

My  Neighbour's  Bird  Stories  . 

.       74 

VIII 

The  Toad  as  Traveller  . 

.       84 

IX 

The  Heron:  A  Feathered  Notable 

.       93 

X 

The  Heron  as  a  Table-Bird    . 

.     106 

XI 

The  Mole  Question   .... 

.     113 

XII 

Cristiano:  A  Horse    .... 

.      119 

XIII 

Mary's  Little  Lamb  .... 

.      123 

XIV 

The  Serpent's  Tongue 

.      134 

XV 

The  Serpent's  Strangeness     . 

153 

XVI 

The  Bruised  Serpent 

172 

XVII 

The  Serpent  in  Literature     . 

186 

s^VIII 

Wasps 

210 

XIX 

Beautiful  Hawk-Moths    . 

217 

XX 

The  Strenuous  Mole        .        .        .        . 

225 

XXI 

A  Friendly  Rat 

232 

vii 


viii  CONTENTS 

CHAPTER  Pj^OE 

XXII     The  Little  Red  Dog 238 

XXIII  Dogs  in  London 247 

XXIV  The  Great  Dog-Supeestition  .        .        .  265 
XXV     My  Friend  the  Pig 295 

XXVI     The  Potato  at  Home  and  in  England  .  303 
XXVII     John-Go-To-Bed-at-Noon,.        .        .        .316 
XXVIII     The     Chequered     Daffodil     and     the 

Glory  op  Wild  Flowers      .        .        .  326 

XXIX     Concerning    Lawns,    with    Incidental 

Observations  on  Earthworms     .        .  337 

Index 357 


THE  BOOK  OF  A  NATURALIST 


LIFE  IN  A  PINE  WOOD 

People,  Birds,  Ants 

Some  years  ago  a  clever  gentleman,  a  landowner 
no  doubt  with  pine  plantations  on  his  property, 
made  the  interesting  discovery  that  the  ideal  place 
to  live  in  was  a  pine  wood,  owing  to  the  antiseptic 
and  medicinal  qualities  emanating  from  the  trees. 
You  could  smell  them  and  began  to  feel  better  the 
moment  you  entered  the  wood.  Naturally  there 
was  a  rush  to  the  pines  just  as  there  had  been  a 
rush  to  the  hill-tops  in  response  to  Tyndall's  flag- 
waving  and  exultant  shouts  from  Hindhead,  and 
as  there  had  been  a  rush  over  a  century  earlier  to 
the  seaside  in  obedience  to  Dr.  Russell's  clarion  call. 
I  have  no  desire  myself  to  live  among  pines,  simply 
because  I  cannot  endure  to  be  shut  off  from  this 
green  earth  with  sight  of  flocks  and  herds.  Woods 
are  sometimes  good  to  live  in:  I  have  spent  happy 
months  in  a  woodman's  cottage  in  a  forest;  but 
the  trees  were  mostly  oak  and  beech  and  there 
were  wide  green  spaces  and  an  abundant  wild 
life.       Pine     woods,     especially     plantations,     are 


2       THE  BOOK  OF  A  NATURALIST 

monotonous  because  the  trees  are  nearly  all  pines 
and  one  tree  is  like  another,  and  their  tall,  bare 
trunks  wall  you  in,  and  their  dark  stiff  foliage 
is  like  a  roof  above  you.  I,  too,  like  being  in  a 
pine  wood,  just  as  I  like  being  by  the  sea,  for  a 
few  hours  or  a  day,  but  for  a  place  to  live  in  I 
should  prefer  a  moor,  a  marsh,  a  sea-salting,  or 
any  other  empty,  desolate  place  with  a  wide 
prospect. 

In  spite  of  this  feeling  I  actually  did  spend  a 
great  part  of  last  summer  in  such  a  place.  It  is 
an  extensive  tract,  which  when  the  excitement 
and  rush  for  the  medicinal  pines  began,  was  first 
seized  upon  by  builders  as  being  near  London 
and  in  a  highly  aristocratic  neighbourhood.  Im- 
mediately, as  by  a  miracle,  large  ornate  houses 
sprang  up  like  painted  agarics  in  the  autumn 
woods — houses  suitable  for  the  occupation  of  im- 
portant persons.  The  wood  itself  was  left  un- 
touched; the  houses,  standing  a  quarter  of  a  mile 
or  more  apart,  with  their  gardens  and  lawns,  were 
like  green,  flowery  oases  scattered  about  in  its 
sombre  wilderness.  Gardens  and  lawns  are  a 
great  expense,  the  soil  being  a  hungry  sand,  and 
for  all  the  manuring  and  watering  the  flowers 
have  a  somewhat  sad  and  sickly  look,  and  the 
lawns  a  poor  thin  turf,  half  grass  and  half  moss. 

As  a  naturalist  I  was  curious  to  observe  the 
effect  of  life  in  a  pine  wood  on  the  inhabitants. 
It  struck  me  that  it  does  not  improve  their  health, 
or  make  them  happy,  and  that  they  suffer  most  in 


LIFE  IN  A  PINE  WOOD  3 

summer,  especially  on  warm  windless  days.  They 
do  not  walk  in  their  woods;  they  hasten  to  the 
gate  which  lets  them  out  on  the  road  and  takes 
them  to  the  village — or  to  some  point  from  which 
they  can  get  a  sight  of  earth  outside  the  pines. 
They  are  glad  to  escape  from  their  surroundings, 
and  are  never  so  happy  as  when  going  away  on 
a  long  visit  to  friends  hving  no  matter  where,  in 
the  country  or  abroad,  so  long  as  it  was  not  in 
a  pine  wood.  I  should  imagine  that  Mariana 
herself,  supposing  that  she  had  survived  to  the 
present  day  and  had  been  persuaded  to  come 
down  south  to  tiy  the  effect  of  living  in  a  pine 
wood,  would  soon  wish  to  go  back  to  her  moated 
grange  on  a  Lincolnshire  flat,  for  all  its  ancient 
dust  and  decay,  with  no  sound  to  break  the  sultry 
noonday  brooding  silence  save  the  singing  of  the 
blue  fly  i'  the  pane  and  the  small  shrill  shriek  of 
the  mouse  behind  the  rotting  wainscot. 

So  much  for  the  human  dwellers  among  the 
"  crepuscular  pines."  I  am  quoting  an  expression 
of  the  late  lamented  Henry  James,  which  he  used 
not  of  pine  woods  generally  but  of  this  very 
wood,  well  known  to  him  too  when  he  was  a  guest 
in  the  house.  But  he  didn't  love  it  or  he  would 
have  been  a  more  frequent  visitor;  as  it  was,  he 
preferred  to  see  his  dear  friends — all  his  friends 
were  very  dear  to  him — when  they  were  away 
from  the  twihght  shelter  of  their  trees  in  ever 
bright  and  beautiful  London. 

I    was    perhaps    more    interested    in    the    non- 


4        THE  BOOK  OF  A  NATURALIST 

human  inhabitants  of  the  wood.  The  wood  that 
was  mine  to  walk  in,  the  part  which  belonged  to 
the  house  and  which  as  a  fact  I  alone  used,  covered 
an  area  of  about  sixty  acres  and  was  one  with  the 
entire  wood,  only  divided  from  the  rest  by  oak 
palings.  When  one  turned  from  the  lawns  and 
gardens  into  the  wood  it  was  like  passing  from 
the  open  sunlit  air  to  the  twilight  and  still 
atmosphere  of  a  cathedral  interior.  It  was  also 
a  strangely  silent  place;  if  a  thrush  or  chaffinch 
was  heard  to  sing,  the  sound  came  from  the  garden 
I  had  quitted  or  from  some  other  garden  in  the 
wood  still  farther  away.  The  only  small  birds  in 
these  pines  were  those  on  a  brief  visit,  and  little 
parties  of  tits  drifted  through.  Nevertheless,  the 
wood  —  the  part  I  was  privileged  to  walk  in  — 
had  its  own  appropriate  fauna — squirrels,  wood- 
pigeons,  a  family  of  jays,  another  of  magpies,  a 
pair  of  yaffles,  and  one  of  sparrow-hawks.  Game 
is  not  preserved  in  these  woods  which  are  par- 
celled out  to  the  diiferent  houses  in  lots  of  a  dozen 
to  fifty  or  more  acres;  consequently  several 
species  which  are  on  the  gamekeeper's  black  list 
are  allowed  to  exist.  Most  of  the  birds  I  have 
named  bred  during  the  summer — the  hawks  and 
yaffles,  a  dozen  or  more  pairs  of  wood-pigeons, 
and  a  pair  each  of  magpies  and  jays.  The  other 
members  of  the  family  parties  of  the  last  two 
species  had  no  doubt  been  induced  by  means  of 
sharp  beaky  arguments  to  go  and  look  for  nesting- 
places  elsewhere. 


LIFE  IN  A  PINE  WOOD  5 

But  not  one  small  bird  could  I  find  nesting  in 
the  wood.  This  set  me  thinking  on  a  question 
which  has  vexed  my  mind  for  years — How  do 
small  birds  safeguard  their  tender  helpless 
fledgelings  from  the  ants?  This  wood  swarmed 
with  ants:  their  nests,  half  hidden  by  the  bracken, 
were  everywhere,  some  of  the  old  mounds  being 
of  huge  size,  twelve  to  fourteen  feet  in  circumfer- 
ence, and  some  over  four  feet  high.  As  their  eggs 
were  not  wanted  the  ants  were  never  disturbed, 
and  the  marvel  was  how  they  could  exist  in  such 
excessive  numbers  in  a  naked  pine  wood,  which 
of  all  woods  is  the  poorest  in  insect  life. 

I  have  said  to  myself  a  hundred  times  that 
birds,  especially  the  small  woodland  species  that 
nest  on  or  near  the  ground,  such  as  the  nightin- 
gale, robin,  wren,  chiff-chaff,  wood  and  willow 
wrens,  and  tits  that  breed  low  down  in  old  stumps, 
must  occasionally  have  their  nestlings  destroyed 
by  ants;  yet  I  have  never  found  a  nest  showing 
plainly  that  such  an  accident  had  occurred,  nor 
had  I  seen  anything  on  the  subject  in  books 
about  birds;  and  of  such  books  I  had  read 
hundreds. 

The  subject  was  in  my  mind  when  I  received 
evidence  from  an  unexpected  quarter  that  tender 
fledgelings  are  sometimes  destroyed  by  ants.  This 
was  in  an  account  of  the  wren  by  a  little  boy 
which  I  came  upon  in  a  bundle  of  Bird  and  Tree 
Competition  essays  from  the  village  schools  in 
Lancashire,  sent  on  to  me  to  read  and  judge  from 


6        THE  BOOK  OF  A  NATURALIST 

the  Royal  Society  for  the  Protection  of  Birds. 
The  boy  stated  in  his  essay  that  having  selected 
the  wren  as  his  subject  he  watched  the  birds  and 
looked  for  nests;  that  among  the  nests  he  found 
one  containing  five  eggs,  and  that  four  young 
were  hatched  but  were  destroyed  the  same  day 
by  ants.  I  wrote  to  the  master  of  the  school,  at 
Newburgh,  near  Wigan,  and  to  the  boy,  Harry 
South  worth,  asking  for  full  particulars.  The 
master's  reply  gave  a  satisfactory  account  of 
Harry  as  a  keen  and  careful  observer,  and  Harry's 
answer  was  that  the  nest  was  built  in  a  small 
hole  in  a  bank  beside  a  brook,  that  he  had 
kept  his  eye  on  it  during  the  time  the  bird  was 
sitting  on  her  five  eggs,  that  on  his  last  visit  he 
found  the  parent  bird  in  a  terrified  state  outside 
the  nest,  and  that  on  examination  he  found  that 
four  young  birds  had  been  hatched,  and  were 
all  dead  but  still  warm,  and  swarming  with 
small  reddish-brown  ants  which  were  feeding  on 
them. 

This  goes  to  show  that  not  only  do  ants  some- 
times attack  the  fledgelings  in  the  nest,  but  also 
that  the  parent  birds  in  such  cases  are  powerless 
to  save  their  young  from  destruction.  My  con- 
clusion was  that  small  ground-nesting  birds  have 
an  instinctive  fear  of  ants  and  avoid  building  at 
places  infested  by  them. 

But  how  does  it  happen,  I  now  asked,  that  the 
larger  birds  that  nest  high  up  in  the  pines  escape 
the    danger?      The    ants   go    up    the    tallest    and 


LIFE  IN  A  PINE  WOOD  7 

smoothest  trunks  with  the  ease  and  at  the  same 
rate  of  speed  as  when  moving  on  the  surface. 
They  are  seen  ascending  and  descending  all  day- 
long in  countless  numbers,  so  that  the  entire  tree- 
top  must  be  swarming  with  them,  searching  every 
twig  and  every  needle;  and  being  ants  and 
ready  to  fasten  their  jaws  on  any  provender,  dead 
or  alive,  without  regard  to  the  size  of  the  object, 
the  newly-hatched  young  wood-pigeons  or  magpies 
can  be  no  safer  in  their  lofty  cradles  than  the 
robin  or  willow-wren  fledgelings  in  their  nest  on  the 
ground. 

Unfortunately,  when  I  got  to  this  point  it  was 
too  late  in  the  season  to  follow  the  matter  much 
further,  since  most  of  the  birds  had  finished  breed- 
ing. Whether  all  or  most  of  them  had  been  suc- 
cessful or  not  I  was  not  able  to  discover;  however, 
the  young  were  not  yet  out  of  the  one  nest  which 
interested  me  the  most.  This  was  the  sparrow- 
hawks',  and  was  in  the  lowest  branches  of  a  tall, 
slim  pine  about  forty-five  feet  from  the  ground. 
It  was  an  exceptionally  big  nest.  The  birds,  I 
knew,  had  brought  off  their  young  successfully  in 
this  same  wood  in  the  three  previous  years,  and  I 
came  to  the  conclusion  that  the  same  nest  had 
been  used  every  time  and  had  grown  to  its  present 
size  by  the  addition  of  fresh  materials  each  season. 
By  standing  on  a  high  mound  situated  at  a  dis- 
tance of  fifty  yards  from  the  tree  I  could,  with  my 
binocular,  get  a  perfect  sight  of  the  four  young 
hawks   on   their  platform,   looking   like   owls   with 


8       THE  BOOK  OF  A  NATURALIST 

their  big  round  heads  and  their  fluffy  white 
down. 

As  their  feathers  grew  they  became  more  active; 
they  were  less  and  less  inclined  to  sit  in  a  close 
bunch;  they  would  draw  as  far  apart  as  they 
were  able  and  sit  on  the  extreme  edge  of  the 
nest,  and  from  that  high  perch  they  would  stare 
curiously  down  at  me  when  I  looked  up  at  them. 
The  habits  of  the  parent  birds  were  unlike  those 
of  sparrow  -  hawks  breeding  in  woods  and  wild 
places  where  people  are  rarely  seen.  Instead  of 
displaying  intense  anxiety  and  screaming  at  the 
sight  of  a  human  form,  causing  the  young  birds  to 
squat  low  down  in  the  nest,  they  would  slink  off 
in  silence  and  vanish  from  the  scene.  This  ex- 
treme secretiveness  was,  in  the  circumstances, 
their  safest  policy,  to  express  it  in  that  way,  but, 
of  course,  it  had  one  drawback — it  left  the  young 
uninstructed  as  to  the  dangerous  character  of  man. 
That  lesson  would  have  to  come  later,  when  they 
were  off  the  nest. 

As  the  hawks  grew,  the  supply  of  food  in- 
creased, and  the  birds  supplied  were  so  carefully 
plucked,  not  a  feather  being  left,  also  the  head 
removed,  that  in  some  instances  it  was  actually 
difficult  to  identify  the  species;  but  I  think  that 
most  of  the  birds  brought  to  the  nest  were  star- 
lings. The  young  hawks  had  now  to  feed  them- 
selves on  what  was  on  the  table,  and  when  one 
felt  peckish  he  would  take  up  a  bird  and  carry 
it  to  the  edge  of  the  big  nest  so  as  to  be  out  of 


LIFE  IN  A  PINE  WOOD  9 

the  way  of  the  others,  and  setting  a  foot  on  it,  go 
to  work  to  tear  it  to  pieces.  But  he  sometimes 
mismanaged  the  business,  and  when  transferring 
the  bird  from  his  beak  to  his  claws  he  would  drop 
it  over  the  edge  and  lose  it.  The  dropped  bird 
would  be  quickly  found  and  attacked  by  the  ants, 
and  before  many  hours  it  would  be  a  well-cleaned 
skeleton. 

But  the  ants  never  ascended  this  tree.  It 
then  occurred  to  me  that  ants  are  always  seen 
swarming  up  certain  trees — always  the  same  trees; 
and  that  a  vast  majority  of  the  trees  were  never 
invaded  by  them  at  all.  I  now  began  going  round 
and  visiting  all  the  trees  where  I  distinctly  remem- 
bered having  seen  ants  ascending,  and  on  all 
those  trees  I  found  them  still  swarming  up  in 
immense  numbers  as  if  to  some  place  containing 
an  inexhaustible  supply  of  food.  It  was  now, 
however,  too  late  in  the  season  to  make  sure  that 
they  do  not  from  time  to  time  invade  fresh  trees. 
That  they  should  go  on  from  day  to  day  for  weeks, 
and  perhaps  for  the  whole  season,  ascending  the 
same  trees  strikes  one  as  very  strange;  yet  such 
a  fact  would  accord  with  what  we  know  of  these 
puzzling  insects  —  their  almost  incredible  wisdom 
in  their  complex  actions  and  system  of  life,  coupled 
with  an  almost  incredible  stupidity.  Or  do  the 
ants  know  just  why  they  go  up  this  particular  tree 
and  not  any  of  the  surrounding  trees?  Can  it  be 
that  on  this  particular  tree  they  have  their  care- 
fully tended  flocks  and  herds  to  supply  them  with 


10      THE  BOOK  OF  A  NATURALIST 

honey-dew — their  milk,  butter  and  cheese?  Such 
flocks  and  herds  they  do  keep  and  tend  on  oak 
trees,  as  I  discovered  in  Harewood  Forest;  and 
I  wish  that  readers  of  this  chapter  who  live  in  or 
near  a  pine  wood  and  are  the  happy  possessors  of 
ladders  forty  or  fifty  feet  long  will  make  some 
further  investigation  into  the  matter. 

My  conclusion  for  the  present  is  that  wood- 
pigeons  and  other  birds  that  breed  in  the  pines 
do  not  build  their  nests  in  trees  used  by  the  ants. 

Let  us  now  follow  the  fortunes  of  the  young 
sparrow-hawks,  bred  in  a  wood  where  people 
inhabit. 

I  watched  them  day  by  day,  and,  gradually,  as 
their  fluffy  coat  was  replaced  by  feathers,  and 
their  lumpish  appearance  changed  to  the  sharp- 
cut  hawk  figure,  they  grew  more  adventurous  and 
would  mount  upon  a  branch  accessible  from  the 
nest,  the  maturest  bird  taking  the  lead,  the  others, 
one  by  one,  slowly  and  cautiously  following. 
Finally,  all  four  would  be  on  the  branch  at  a  dis- 
tance of  six  to  ten  inches  apart,  the  one  nearest 
the  nest  being  always  the  least  hawk-like  in  appear- 
ance— more  lumpish  and  with  more  down  on  it 
than  the  others. 

One  morning  in  September  I  found  the  nest 
empty;  the  young  had  been  persuaded  to  leave 
for  good  early  that  morning.  Just  how  they  had 
been  persuaded — feelingly,  perhaps  with  sudden 
smart  blows — it  would  have  been  a  great  thing  to 
witness,  but  I  had  never  looked  for  it  on  account 


LIFE  IN  A  PINE  WOOD  11 

of  the  vigilance  and  extraordinary  secretiveness  of 
the  parent  birds.  Never  once  had  they  uttered  a 
sound  or  allowed  themselves  to  be  seen.  Now 
that  their  young  were  out  and  able  to  fly,  they  no 
longer  found  it  necessary  to  make  themselves  in- 
visible on  the  appearance  of  the  human  form  in 
the  wood.  At  all  events,  after  keeping  the  young 
concealed  for  the  space  of  three  or  four  days,  they 
began  to  show  themselves  openly,  pursued  by  the 
young,  wailing  and  screaming  to  be  fed.  All  day 
long  these  whining  cries  were  heard,  and  it  was 
plain  that  a  new  system  had  been  adopted  by  the 
parent  birds  at  this  stage,  which  was  to  keep  their 
young  on  short  commons,  instead  of  supplying 
them  with  more  food  than  they  could  consume. 
The  result  was  that  the  young,  instead  of  sitting 
idly  waiting  for  small  birds,  properly  plucked, 
to  be  brought  and  dropped  at  their  feet,  were 
driven  by  hunger  to  fly  after  the  parent  birds, 
who  led  them  an  endless  chase  in  and  out  and 
above  the  trees.  It  all  looked  like  a  great  waste 
of  energy,  but  it  had  an  important  use  in  teach- 
ing the  young  to  fly  and  to  develop  the  wing 
muscles  by  incessant  exercise.  These  exercises  con- 
tinued for  five  or  six  days  in  the  wood,  then  followed 
a  fresh  move;  every  morning  early  the  wood  was 
quitted  by  the  whole  family,  the  young,  no  doubt, 
being  conducted  to  a  clump  on  one  of  the  extensive 
tracts  of  heath  in  the  neighbourhood.  There  they 
would  have  other  and  more  important  lessons  to 
learn.     The  young  hawk  would  have  to  pluck  the 


12      THE  BOOK  OF  A  NATURALIST 

feathers  out  himself  or  else  swallow  them  along 
with  the  flesh;  the  next  stage  would  be  that  the 
bird  would  be  delivered  alive,  but  partially  disabled, 
and  he  would  have  to  kill  it  himself;  finally,  he 
would  have  to  capture  his  own  prey — the  last  and 
most  difficult  lesson  of  all. 

That  they  were  still  kept  on  short  commons  was 
evident  from  the  perpetual  hunger-cries  of  the 
young  when  they  returned  each  evening  to  their 
roosting-place  in  the  wood.  From  the  moment  of 
their  arrival  an  hour  before  sunset,  until  it  was 
almost  dark,  the  clamour  went  on,  the  young 
birds  following  their  parents  the  whole  time. 
This  continued  for  a  fortnight,  and  during  the 
last  few  evenings  the  parent  birds  introduced  yet 
another  new  subject  or  feature  into  their  educa- 
tional system.  They  would  rise  over  the  trees, 
both  male  and  female,  but  keeping  wide  apart, 
followed  by  the  clamouring  young;  and  floating 
and  circling  up  with  easy  harrier-like  movement, 
they  would  mount  to  a  height  of  two  or  three 
hundred  yards  above  the  tree-tops,  then  suddenly 
hurl  themselves  down  like  stones  and  vanish 
among  the  trees,  still  followed  at  a  long  distance 
by  the  young.  Once  down  beneath  the  tree-tops 
it  was  marvellous  to  see  them,  dashing  at  their 
topmost  sparrow-hawk  speed  hither  and  thither 
among  the  tall,  naked  boles,  with  many  sudden 
sharp  twistings  which  apparently  just  enabled 
them  to  escape  being  dashed  to  death  against  a 
trunk    or    branch.      Every    time    I    witnessed    this 


LIFE  IN  A  PINE  WOOD  13 

seemingly  mad  violent  action,  yet  accomplished 
with  such  ease,  such  certainty,  such  grace,  I  was 
astonished  afresh. 

This  would  be  the  last  act  in  the  day's  business, 
for  immediately  afterwards  they  would  fly  to  the 
roosting-place  and  the  hungry  young  would  hush 
their  cries. 

Then  at  the  end  of  the  third  week  in  September 
the  whole  family  disappeared.  The  young  had  now 
to  learn  that  they  could  not  always  stay  in  the 
one  place  which  they  knew,  soon  to  be  followed 
with  the  last  and  hardest  of  all  their  lessons,  that 
they  must  make  their  own  living  or  else  starve. 

Note. — Since  this  paper  appeared  in  the  National  Review, 
my  idea  concerning  the  destructiveness  of  ants  to  young  birds 
has  received  further  confirmation  from  two  widely  separated 
quarters.  One,  oddly  enough,  is  contained  in  another  country 
schoolboy  essay,  for  a  Bird  and  Tree  Day  Competition,  in 
this  case  from  a  village  in  Hampshire.  The  skylark  was  the 
bird  observed,  and  on  one  of  the  visits  the  little  observer  paid 
to  the  nest,  when  the  nestlings  were  a  few  days  old,  he  found 
them  outside  of  the  nest  covered  with  small  red  ants  and  in  a 
dying  condition. 

The  second  case  is  contained  in  a  letter  from  one  of  my  cor- 
respondents in  Australia,  Mr.  Charles  Barrett,  well  known  in 
the  Colony  and  in  this  country  as  a  student  of  the  native  avi- 
fauna. He  had  in  reading  seen  an  extract  from  my  paper  on 
"Life  in  a  Pine  Wood,"  and  wrote:  "  I  believe  that  in  Aus- 
tralia, where  ants  of  many  species  swarm  in  the  dry  regions, 
large  numbers  of  nestings  fall  victims  to  these  insects.  Of 
course  it  is  the  birds  that  nest  on  the  ground  that  suffer  the 
most,  but  some  of  the  ants  ascend  trees  and  attack  the  fledge- 
lings in  nests  in  the  highest  branches.  ...  In  November  I 
noticed  a  stream  of  large  reddish  ants  streaming  up  a  gum 
sapling,  and  found  it  was  pouring  into  a  nest  of  ;wood  swallows, 
Artamus  sarolida,  which  contained  three  chicks  about  a  week 


14      THE  BOOK  OF  A  NATURALIST 

old.  They  were  being  devoured  alive  by  ants.  ...  I  put 
the  nestlings  out  of  their  misery,  but  felt  miserable  myself  for 
the  remainder  of  that  golden  afternoon,  thinking  that  many 
similar  tragedies  to  that  were  being  enacted  in  the  Bush,  The 
odour  and  fragrance  of  the  wattle  bloom  along  the  creek  and 
the  blithe  songs  of  birds  failed  to  cheer  for  the  time." 

He  also  described  finding  the  nest  of  a  song-thrush  (our 
English  bird)  with  nestlings  in  a  similar  state. 


II 

HINTS  TO  ADDER  -  SEEKERS 

It  has  occurred  to  me  that  a  few  hints  or  wrinkles 
on  the  subject  of  adder  -  seeking  might  prove 
serviceable  to  some  readers  of  this  work,  seeing 
that  there  are  very  many  persons  desirous  of 
making  the  acquaintance  of  this  rare  and  elusive 
reptile.  They  wish  to  know  it — at  a  safe  distance 
— in  a  state  of  Nature,  in  its  own  home,  and  have 
sought  and  have  not  found  it.  Quite  frequently — 
about  once  or  twice  each  week  in  summer — I  am 
asked  by  some  one  for  instructions  in  the  matter. 

One  of  my  sweetest-tempered  and  most  bene- 
volent friends,  who  loves,  he  imagines,  all  things 
both  great  and  small,  pays  the  children  of  his 
village  sixpence  for  every  dead  adder  or  grass- 
snake  they  bring  him.  He  does  not  distinguish 
between  the  two  ophidians.  It  is  to  be  hoped  that 
no  such  lover  of  God's  creatures,  including  His 
"  wild  wormes  in  woods,"  will  take  advantage  of 
these  hints.  Let  him  that  finds  an  adder  treat  it 
properly,  not  without  reverence,  and  his  finding 
it  will  be  to  his  gain  in  knowledge  of  that  rare 
and  personal  kind  which  cannot  be  written  or 
15 


16      THE  BOOK  OF  A  NATURALIST 

imparted  in  any  way.  That  which  we  seek  is  not 
the  viper,  the  subject  of  Fontana's  monumental 
work,  the  little  rope  of  clay  or  dead  flesh  in  the 
British  Museum,  coiled  in  its  bottle  of  spirits,  and 
labelled  "  Vipera  heriis,  Linn." 

We  seek  the  adder  or  nadder,  that  being 
venerated  of  old  and  generator  of  the  sacred 
adder-stone  of  the  Druids,  and  he  dwells  not  in  a 
jar  of  alcohol  in  the  still  shade  and  equable  tem- 
perature of  a  museum.  He  is  a  lover  of  the  sun, 
and  must  be  sought  for  after  his  winter  sleep  in 
dry  incult  places,  especially  in  open  forest-lands, 
stony  hill  -  sides  and  furze  -  grown  heaths  and 
commons.  After  a  httle  training  the  adder-seeker 
gets  to  know  a  viperish  locahty  by  its  appearance. 
It  is,  however,  not  necessary  to  go  out  at  random 
in  search  of  a  suitable  hunting-ground,  seeing  that 
all  places  haunted  by  adders  are  well  known  to 
the  people  in  the  neighbourhood,  who  are  only  too 
ready  to  give  the  information  required.  There  are 
no  preservers  of  adders  in  the  land,  and  so  far  as 
I  know  there  has  been  but  one  person  in  England 
to  preserve  that  beautiful  and  innocuous  creature, 
the  ringed-snake.  Can  any  one  understand  such 
a  hobby  or  taste?  Certainly  not  that  friend  of 
animals  who  pays  sixpence  for  a  dead  snake. 
He,  the  snake  -  saviour,  our  unknown  little 
Melampus,  paid  his  village  boys  sixpence  for  every 
one  they  brought  to  him  ahve  and  uninjured,  and 
to  inspire  confidence  in  them  he  would  go  with 
half  a  dozen  large  snakes  in  his  coat  pockets  into 


HINTS  TO  ADDER-SEEKERS         17 

the  village  school,  and  pulling  his  pets  out,  would 
play  with  and  make  the  children  handle  them 
and  take  note  of  their  beautiful  form  and  motions. 

This  snake-lover  possessed  at  Aldermaston  one  j 
of  the  largest  parks  in  southern  England,  abounding 
in  oak  trees  so  ancient  and  of  so  noble  a  growth 
that  they  are  a  wonder  to  all  who  see  them.  This  j 
vast  park  was  his  snake-preserve,  and  in  moist 
green  places,  by  running  waters,  he  planted  thickets 
for  their  shelter.  But  when  his  time  came  and  he 
died,  the  son  who  succeeded  him  thought  he  would 
get  more  glory  and  sport  by  preserving  pheasants, 
and  accordingly  engaged  a  little  army  of  men  and 
boys  to  extirpate  the  reptiles.  There  is  nothing 
now  to  recall  the  dead  man's  "  fantastic  hobby " 
but  a  stained-glass  window — I  wish  it  had  been 
done  by  a  better  artist — placed  by  his  pious  widow 
in  the  beautiful  parish  church,  where  you  can  see 
him  among  angelic  figures  surrounded  by  a  com- 
pany of  birds  and  beasts  and  reptiles  of  many 
shapes  and  colours,  and  at  the  margins  the  familiar 
words.  He  prayeth  best  who  loveth  best,  etc. 

Let  us  return  to  our  quest.  The  trouble  is 
when  you  have  arrived  at  the  adder-haunt  to  find 
the  adder.  A  man  may  spend  years,  even  a  life- 
time, without  seeing  one.  Some  time  ago  I  talked 
to  an  aged  shepherd  whose  flock  fed  in  a  wide 
furze -grown  hollow  in  the  South  Downs  where 
adders  were  not  uncommon.  He  told  me  he  had 
been  shepherding  forty  years  in  that  place,  and 
during  the  entire  period  had  found  three  adders! 


18      THE  BOOK  OF  A  NATURALIST 

If  he  had  said  300  I  should  not  have  been  sur- 
prised. The  man  on  the  soil  does  not  often  see 
an  adder,  because  for  one  thnig  he  does  not  look 
for  it,  and  still  more  because  of  the  heavy  boots  he 
wears,  with  which  he  pounds  the  earth  like  a  dray- 
horse  with  its  ponderous  iron-shod  hoofs.  Even 
men  who  walk  lightly  and  wear  light  foot  -  gear 
make,  as  a  rule,  an  amazing  noise  in  walking  over 
dry  heathy  places  with  brittle  sticks  and  dry 
vegetable  matter  covering  the  ground.  I  have  had 
persons  thrust  their  company  on  me  when  going 
for  a  stroll  on  ground  abounding  in  adders,  and 
have  known  at  once  from  their  way  of  walking  in 
an  unaccustomed  place  that  the  quest  would  prove 
an  idle  one.  Their  lightest,  most  cautious  tread 
would  alarm  and  send  into  hiding  every  adder  a 
dozen  or  twenty  yards  in  advance  of  us. 

In  spring  the  adders  are  most  alert  and  shyest. 
Later  in  the  season  some  adders,  as  a  rule  the 
females,  become  sluggish  and  do  not  slip  quickly 
away  when  approached;  but  in  summer  the 
herbage  is  apt  to  hide  them,  and  they  lie  more  in 
the  shade  than  in  March,  April,  and  the  early  part 
of  May.  In  spring  you  must  go  alone  and  softly, 
but  you  need  not  fear  to  whistle  and  sing,  or  even 
to  shout,  for  the  adder  is  deaf  and  cannot  hear  you; 
on  the  other  hand,  his  body  is  sensitive  in  an 
Extraordinary  degree  to  earth  vibrations,  and  the 
ordinary  tread  of  even  a  very  light  man  will 
disturb  him  at  a  distance  of  fifteen  or  twenty 
yards.     That   sense   of  the   adder,   which  has   no 


HINTS  TO  ADDER-SEEKERS         19 

special  organ  yet  may  serve  better  than  vision, 
hearing,  smell,  and  touch  together,  is  of  the  greatest  1 
importance  to  it,  since  to  a  creature  that  lies  and  \ 
progresses  prone  on  the  ground  and  has  a  long  i 
brittle  backbone,  the  heavy  mammalian  foot  is  one  > 
of  the  greatest  dangers  to  its  life. 

Not  only  must  the  seeker  go  softly,  but  he  must 
have  a  quick-seeing,  ever-searching  eye,  and  behind 
the  eye  a  mind  intent  on  the  object.  The  sharpest 
sight  is  useless  if  he  falls  to  thinking  of  something 
else,  since  it  is  not  possible  for  him  to  be  in  two 
places  at  once.  To  empty  the  mind  as  in  crystal- 
gazing  is  a  good  plan,  but  if  it  cannot  be  emptied, 
if  thought  will  not  rest  still,  it  must  be  occupied 
with  adders  and  nothing  else.  The  exercise  and 
discipline  is  interesting  even  if  we  find  no  adders; 
it  reveals  in  swift  flickering  glimpses  a  vanished 
experience  or  state  of  the  primitive  mind — the 
mind  which,  like  that  of  the  inferior  animals,  is 
a  polished  mirror,  undimmed  by  speculation,  in 
which  the  extraneous  world  is  vividly  reflected.  If 
the  adder  quest  goes  on  for  days,  it  is  still  best  to 
preserve  the  mood,  to  think  of  adders  all  day,  and 
when  asleep  to  dream  of  them.  The  dreams,  I 
have  found,  are  of  two  sorts — pleasant  and  un- 
pleasant. In  the  former  we  are  the  happy  first 
finders  of  the  loveliest  and  most  singular  serpents 
ever  looked  upon;  in  the  second  we  unwittingly 
go  up  barefooted  into  a  place  from  which  we  cannot 
escape,  a  vast  flat  region  extending  to  the  horizon, 
littered  with  adders.     We  have  lifted  a  foot  and 


20      THE  BOOK  OF  A  NATURALIST 

don't  know  where  to  set  it,  for  there  is  not  one 
square  foot  of  ground  which  is  not  ah-eady  occupied 
by  an  adder  coiled  in  readiness  to  strike. 

In  adder-seeking,  the  main  thing  is  to  find  your 
adder  without  disturbing  it,  so  as  to  be  able  to 
stand  near  and  watch  it  lying  quiescent  in  the  sun. 
The  best  plan  is  to  come  almost  to  a  stop  as  soon 
as  the  creature  has  been  caught  sight  of,  then  to 
advance  so  slowly  and  stealthily  as  to  appear 
stationary,  for  the  adder  although  unalarmed  is, 
I  believe,  always  conscious  of  your  presence.  In 
this  way  you  may  approach  to  within  two  or  three 
yards,  or  nearer,  and  remain  a  long  time  regard- 
ing it. 

But  what  is  the  seeker  to  do  if,  after  long 
searching,  he  discovers  his  adder  already  in  retreat, 
and  knows  that  in  two  or  three  seconds  it  will 
vanish  from  his  sight?  As  a  rule,  the  person  who 
sees  an  adder  gliding  from  him  aims  a  blow  at  it 
with  his  stick  so  as  not  to  lose  it.  Now  to  kill  your 
adder  is  to  lose  it.  It  is  true  you  will  have  some- 
thing to  show  for  it,  or  something  of  it  which  is 
left  in  your  hands,  and  which,  if  you  feel  disposed, 
you  may  put  in  a  glass  jar  and  label  "  Vipera  herus." 
But  this  would  not  be  an  adder.  Must  we  then 
never  kill  an  adder?  That  is  a  question  I  do  not 
undertake  to  answer,  but  I  can  say  that  if  we  are 
seeking  after  knowledge,  or  something  we  call 
knowledge  because  it  is  a  convenient  word  and  can 
be  made  to  cover  many*  things  it  would  be  difficult 
to  name,  then  to  kill  is  no  profit,  but,  on  the  contrary. 


HINTS  TO  ADDER-SEEKERS         21 

a  distinct  loss.  Fontana  dissected  40,000  adders  in 
his  long  and  busy  day,  but  if  there  is  anything  we 
want  to  know  about  the  adder  beyond  the  number 
of  scales  on  the  integument,  and  the  number, 
shape,  and  size  of  the  bones  in  the  dead  coil,  he 
and  the  innumerable  ophiologists  and  herpetologists 
who  came  after  him  are  unable  to  tell  us.  We  can 
read  about  the  scales  and  bones  in  a  thousand 
books.  We  want  to  know  more  about  the  living 
thing,  even  about  its  common  life  habits.  It  has 
not  yet  been  settled  whether  or  not  the  female 
adder  swallows  its  young,  not,  like  the  fer-de-lance, 
to  digest  them  in  her  stomach,  but  to  save  their  i 
threatened  lives.  It  is  true  that  many  persons  j 
have,  during  the  last  half  century,  witnessed  the  ' 
thing  and  have  described  what  they  saw  in  The 
Zoologist,  Land  and  Water,  Field  and  other  journals ; 
nevertheless  the  compilers  of  our  Natural  Histories 
regard  the  case  as  not  yet  proved  beyond  a  doubt. 

Here,  then,  we  have  one  of  several  questions 
which  can  only  be  answered  by  field-naturalists 
who  abstain  from  killing.  But  a  better  reason  for 
not  killing  may  be  given  than  this  desire  to  discover 
a  new  fact — the  mere  satisfying  of  a  mental  curiosity. 
I  know  good  naturalists  who  have  come  to  hate 
the  very  sight  of  a  gun,  simply,  because  that  useful 
instrument  has  become  associated  in  their  case  with 
the  thought  and  the  memory  of  the  degrading  or 
disturbing  effect  on  the  mind  of  killing  the  creatures 
we  love,  whose  secrets  we  wish  to  find  out. 

Alas!   it  took  me   a   long  time  to   discover   the 


22      THE  BOOK  OF  A  NATURALIST 

advantages  of  not  killing.  The  following  account 
of  killing  an  adder — the  last  time  I  did  such  a 
thing — may  serve  to  throw  a  little  light  on  the 
question.  Adders  were  common  at  a  place  where 
I  was  staying  at  a  farm  in  the  New  Forest,  hut  I 
had  never  seen  one  near  the  house  until  one  sultry 
afternoon  in  July,  when  coming  into  a  path  which 
led  from  the  farm-yard  into  and  through  a  hazel 
copse,  I  came  upon  one  lying  in  the  middle  of  the 
path.  It  was  a  large  adder,  so  sluggish  that  it 
made  no  attempt  to  escape,  but  turned  and  struck 
at  me  when  I  approached  it.  I  thought  of  the 
little  children,  for  this  was  the  very  spot  where 
they  came  to  play  and  hunt  for  fowls'  eggs  every 
afternoon;  the  adder,  if  left  there,  might  be  a 
danger  to  them;  it  was  necessary  either  to  kill 
or  remove  it.  Then  it  occurred  to  me  that  to 
remove  it  would  be  useless,  since  if  the  creature's 
place  was  there,  it  would  infallibly  return  to  it 
from  any  distance.  The  homing  instinct  is  strong 
in  the  adder  and  in  most  serpents.  And  so  to 
end  the  matter  I  killed  and  buried  it,  and  went 
on  my  way.  My  way  was  through  the  copse  and 
over  a  fence  and  ditch  on  the  other  side,  and  I 
was  no  sooner  over  the  ditch  than  I  beheld  a 
second  adder,  bigger  than  the  last  and  just  as 
sluggish.  It  was,  however,  not  strange,  as  in  July 
the  female  adder  is  often  like  that,  especially  in 
sultry  thunderous  weather.  I  teased  it  to  make  it 
move  away,  then  picked  it  up  to  examine  it,  after 
which  I  released  it  and  watched  it  gliding  slowly 


HINTS  TO  ADDER-SEEKERS         23 

away  into  the  shadow  of  the  bushes.  And,  watching 
it,  I  became  conscious  of  a  change  in  my  mental 
attitude  towards  the  living  things  that  were  so 
much  to  me,  my  chief  happiness  having  always 
been  in  observing  their  ways.  The  curiosity  was 
not  diminished,  but  the  feeling  that  had  gone  with 
it  for  a  very  long  time  past  was  changed  to  what 
it  had  been  when  I  was  sportsman  and  collector, 
always  killing  things.  The  serpent  gliding  away 
before  me  was  nothing  but  a  worm  with  poison 
fangs  in  its  head  and  a  dangerous  habit  of  striking 
at  unwarj^  legs — a  creature  to  be  crushed  with  the 
heel  and  no  more  thought  about.  I  had  lost 
something  precious,  not,  I  should  say,  in  any 
ethical  sense,  seeing  that  we  are  in  a  world  where 
we  must  kill  to  live,  but  valuable  in  my  special 
case,  to  me  as  a  field-naturalist.  Abstention  from 
kilhng  had  made  me  a  better  observer  and  a  happier 
being,  on  account  of  the  new  or  different  feeling 
towards  animal  life  which  it  had  engendered.  And 
what  was  this  new  feeling — wherein  did  it  differ 
from  the  old  of  my  shooting  and  collecting  days, 
seeing  that  since  childhood  I  had  always  had  the 
same  intense  interest  in  all  wild  hfe?  The  power, 
beauty,  and  grace  of  the  wild  creature,  its  perfect 
harmony  in  nature,  the  exquisite  correspondence 
between  organism,  form  and  faculties,  and  the 
environment,  with  the  plasticity  and  intelligence 
for  the  readjustment  of  the  vital  machinery,  daily, 
hourly,  momentarily,  to  meet  all  changes  in  the 
conditions,     all    contingencies;     and    thus,     amidst 


24      THE  BOOK  OF  A  NATURALIST 

perpetual  mutations  and  conflict  with  hostile  and 
destructive  forces,  to  perpetuate  a  form,  a  type,  a 
species  for  thousands  and  millions  of  years! — all 
this  was  always  present  to  my  mind;  yet  even  so 
it  was  but  a  lesser  element  in  the  complete  feeling. 
The  main  thing  was  the  wonderfulness  and  eternal 
mystery  of  life  itself;  this  formative,  informing 
energy — this  flame  that  burns  in  and  shines  through 
the  case,  the  habit,  which  in  lighting  another  dies, 
and  albeit  dying  yet  endures  for  ever;  and  the 
sense,  too,  that  this  flame  of  life  was  one,  and  of  my 
kinship  with  it  in  all  its  appearances,  in  all  organic 
shapes,  however  different  from  the  human.  Nay, 
the  very  fact  that  the  forms  were  unliuman  but 
served  to  heighten  the  interest; — the  roe-deer,  the 
leopard  and  wild  horse,  the  swallow  cleaving  the 
air,  the  butterfly  toying  with  a  flower,  and  the 
dragon-fly  dreaming  on  the  river;  the  monster 
whale,  the  silver  flying-fish,  and  the  nautilus  with 
rose  and  purple  tinted  sails  spread  to  the  wind. 

Happily  for  me  the  loss  of  this  sense  and  feeling 
was  but  a  temporary  one,  and  was  recovered  in  the 
course  of  the  next  two  days,  which  I  spent  in  the 
woods  and  on  the  adjacent  boggy  heath,  finding 
many  adders  and  snakes,  also  young  birds  and 
various  other  creatures  which  I  handled  and  played 
with,  and  I  could  afford  once  more  to  laugh  at 
those  who  laughed  at  or  were  annoyed  with  me 
on  account  of  my  fantastic  notions  about  animals. 
My  next  great  adventure  with  an  adder,  which 
came  a  year  later,  gave  me  so  good  a  laugh  that 


HINTS  TO  ADDER-SEEKERS         25 

I  am  tempted  to  go  further  with  this  digression  to 
give  an  account  of  it. 

The  adventure  was  the  finding  of  my  biggest 
adder.  It  was  in  a  tract  of  ground  overgrown  with 
furze  and  thorn,  at  a  spot  not  far  from  the  turn- 
pike road  that  runs  from  Sahsbury  to  Blandford. 
Having  discovered  that  this  spot,  with  an  area  of 
several  hundred  acres,  teemed  with  interesting  wild 
life,  I  made  it  a  haunt  for  several  weeks.  I  soon 
found  out  that  it  was  a  valuable  game  preserve 
and  that  the  keeper  had  strict  orders  from  the 
shooting  tenant  not  to  allow  any  person  on  the 
land.  However,  I  approached  him  in  the  proper 
way,  and  he  left  me  to  enjoy  myself  in  my  own 
fashion. 

Never  had  I  seen  adders  so  abundant  as  at  this 
spot,  yet  the  keeper  assured  me  that  he  had  been 
trying  for  years  to  extirpate  them,  and  often  killed 
as  many  as  half  a  dozen  in  a  day. 

One  morning,  near  the  end  of  June,  I  found  my 
big  adder,  and  picking  it  up,  held  it  suspended  by 
the  tip  of  its  tail  for  nearly  half  an  hour,  imtil, 
exhausted  with  its  vain  wriggling,  it  allowed  itself 
to  hang  limp  and  straight.  Then  I  got  out  my 
tape-measure  and  set  about  the  difficult  task  of 
getting  the  exact  length;  but  the  adder  would  not 
have  it,  for  invariably  when  the  tape  was  dropped 
at  its  side  it  drew  itself  up  into  a  series  of  curves 
and  defeated  me.  Tired  of  the  long  business,  I  set 
it  down  at  length  and  stunned  it  with  a  rap  on  its 
head  with  my  stick,  then  setting  the  tape  on  its 


26      THE  BOOK  OF  A  NATURALIST 

flat  head  and  pressing  it  with  my  thumb,  I  pulled 
the  body  straight  and  succeeded  in  getting  the 
exact  length.  It  was  twenty-eight  inches.  The 
biggest  adder  I  had  hitherto  found  was  twenty-five 
and  a  half;  this  was  in  the  New  Forest,  in  the 
wildest  part,  where  it  is  most  thinly  inhabited  and 
adders  are  most  abundant.  None  of  the  other 
biggest  adders  I  had  measured  before  and  since 
exceeded  twenty-four  inches. 

We  see  that  the  adder,  when  we  come  to  measure 
it,  is  not  a  big  snake;  it  looks  bigger  than  it  is, 
partly  on  account  of  its  strange  conspicuous  colour- 
ing, with  the  zigzag  shape  of  the  band,  and  its 
reputation  as  a  dangerous  serpent;  this  makes  an 
adder  two  feet  long  look  actually  bigger  than  the 
grass-snake  of  three  feet — the  size  to  which  this 
snake  usually  grows. 

In  a  minute  or  two  my  adder  recovered  from  the 
effects  of  the  tap  on  his  head  and  was  permitted  to 
glide  away  into  the  furze  bushes.  And  leaving  the 
spot  I  went  on,  but  had  not  gone  forty  yards 
before  catching  sight  of  another  adder  lying  coiled 
up.  I  stopped  to  look  at  it,  then  slowly  advanced 
to  within  about  five  feet  of  it,  and  there  remained 
standing  still,  just  to  see  whether  or  not  my  presence 
so  close  to  it  would  affect  it  in  any  way.  Presently, 
hearing  a  shout,  I  looked  up  and  saw  two  horsemen 
coming  up  over  the  down  in  front  of  me.  They 
pulled  up  and  sat  staring  down  at  me — a  big  man 
on  a  big  horse,  and  a  rather  small  man  on  a  small 
horse.    The  big  man  was  the  shooting  tenant,  and 


HINTS  TO  ADDER-SEEKERS         27 

the  shout  was  evidently  meant  for  me,  but  I  took 
no  notice.  I  kept  my  eyes  on  my  adder,  and  soon 
the  two  horsemen  came  down  at  a  gallop  to  me, 
and  of  course  before  they  were  fifty  yards  from  me, 
the  thunder  of  the  hoofs  had  sent  the  creature  into 
hiding.  Sitting  on  their  horses  they  stared  in  angry 
silence  at  me,  and  finding  I  had  to  speak  first,  I 
apologised  for  being  in  the  preserve,  and  said  the 
keeper,  knowing  me  to  be  a  harmless  naturahst, 
had  given  me  permission  to  come  there  to  find  a 
flower  I  was  interested  in — also  an  adder.  What, 
he  demanded,  did  I  want  with  adders?  Just  to 
see  them,  I  said;  I  had  found  one  and  was  watch- 
ing it  when  his  approach  had  driven  it  away.  I 
then  added  that  adders  were  exceedingly  abundant 
on  this  land  of  his,  that  I  had  just  found  and 
measured  one  which  was  twenty-eight  inches  long 
— the  biggest  adder  I  had  ever  found. 

"When  is  it? — let's  see  it!"  shouted  both  men, 
and  I  had  to  tell  them  that  I  had  released  it,  and 
it  had  gone  into  a  bush  about  forty  yards  from 
where  we  stood. 

They  stared  at  me,  then  exchanged  glances,  then 
the  big  man  asked  me  if  I  meant  what  I  had  said — 
if  I  had  actually  caught  a  big  adder  only  to  release 
it  unharmed? 

That,  I  said,  was  what  I  had  done. 

"  Then  you  did  wrong,"  almost  yelled  the 
second  man.  "  To  catch  and  release  an  adder  that 
might  bite  and  kill  some  one  any  day — I  consider  it 
a  crime." 


28      THE  BOOK  OF  A  NATURALIST 

I  laughed  and  said  I  didn't  mind  being  a 
criminal  in  that  way,  and  I  also  thought  people 
greatly  exaggerated  the  danger  of  adder  bites. 

"You  are  wrong  again!"  he  yelled,  quite  in  a 
temper  now.  "As  a  naturahst,  you  ought  to  know 
better.  Let  me  tell  you  that  last  summer  I  nearly 
lost  my  little  son  through  an  adder  bite.  He 
was  in  the  Isle  of  Wight  with  his  nurse,  and 
trod  on  the  thing  and  was  bitten  on  the  leg.  For 
a  whole  day  his  life  was  trembling  in  the  balance, 
and  you  dare  to  tell  me  that  adders  are  not  a 
danger! " 

I  apologised  for  having  made  light  of  the  subject. 
He  was  right  and  I  was  wrong.  But  I  couldn't 
explain  to  him  why  I  could  not  kiU  adders — or 
anything  else. 

Let  us  now  return  to  the  adder-seeker  who  has 
unwittingly  disturbed  the  adder  he  has  found,  and 
who  sees  it  about  to  vanish  into  the  brake.  He 
has  been  waiting  all  this  time  to  know  what  to  do 
in  such  a  case.  He  must  let  it  vanish,  and  comfort 
himself  with  the  thought  that  he  has  discovered 
its  haunt  and  may  re-find  it  another  day,  especially 
if  he  is  so  fortunate  as  to  scare  it  from  its  favourite 
bed  on  which  it  is  accustomed  to  lie  sunning  itself 
at  certain  hours  each  day  until  the  progress  of  the 
season  will  make  it  too  warm  or  otherwise  un- 
suitable, when  the  old  basking-place  will  be  changed 
for  a  new  one.  But  should  he  not  be  satisfied  to 
lose    sight    of    the    adder    immediately    after    dis- 


HINTS  TO  AJDDER-SEEKERS         29 

covering  it,  he  must  be  provided  with  some  simple 
contrivance  for  its  capture. 

My  plan,  which  cannot  be  recommended  to 
timid  persons  liable  in  moments  of  excitement  to 
get  flustered  and  awkward,  is  to  catch  the  retreat- 
ing adder  quickly  by  the  tail,  which  is  a  perfectly 
safe  proceeding  if  there  is  no  blundering,  since  the 
creature  when  going  from  you  is  not  in  a  position 
to  strike. 

I  confess  I  am  always  a  little  reluctant  to  offer 
such  an  indignity  to  the  adder  as  grasping  and 
holding  it  up,  enraged  and  impotent,  by  the  tail, 
although  such  treatment  may  be  to  its  advantage 
in  the  end.  We  have  a  naturalist  in  England  who 
picks  up  every  adder  he  finds  and  pinches  its  tail 
before  releasing  it,  just  to  teach  it  caution.  The 
poor  creeping  thing  with  a  zigzag  band  on  its 
back  to  advertise  its  dangerous  character  has  of 
all  creatures  the  fewest  friends  among  men.  My 
sole  object  in  picking  up  an  adder  by  the  tail 
is  to  be  able  to  look  at  its  under-surface,  which 
is  often  the  most  beautiful  part.  As  a  rule  the 
colour  is  deep  blue,  but  it  varies;  the  darkest 
specimens  being  blue-black  or  even  quite  black, 
while  the  exceedingly  rare  light  blue  is  too 
beautiful  for  words.  Occasionally  we  find  an 
adder  with  the  belly  plates  of  the  same  ground 
colour,  a  dull  or  pale  straw  yellow,  as  the  upper 
part  of  the  body,  with  the  dark  blue  colour  in 
broken  spots  and  dots  and  lines  inscribed  on  it. 
These   markings    in    some    cases    resemble    written 


30      THE  BOOK  OF  A  NATURALIST 

characters,  and  it  was  said  of  old  that  they  formed 
the  words: 

If  I  could  hear  as  well  as  see, 
No  man  of  life  would  master  me. 
Probably  these  letter-like  markings  on  the  creature's 
belly,  like  the  minute  black  lines,  resembling  writ- 
ing, on  the  pale  bark  of  the  holly  tree,  suggested 
some  other  more  important  meaning  to  the  priests 
of  an  ancient  cult,  and  gave  the  adder  a  peculiarly 
sacred  character. 

To  conclude,  let  me  relate  here  how  I  once  had 
to  congratulate  myself  on  having  hurriedly  snatched 
at  and  captured  an  adder  at  the  moment  of  seeing 
it,  and  of  its  attempted  escape.  I  was  cautiously 
strolling  along,  hoping  to  see  some  good  thing,  in 
a  copse  in  private  grounds  in  the  'New  Forest,  a 
place  abounding  in  adders  and  other  interesting 
creatures.  Night- jars  were  common  there,  and  by 
and  by  one  rose  almost  at  my  feet  over  the  roots 
of  an  oak  tree,  and  casting  my  eyes  down  at  the 
spot  from  which  it  had  risen,  I  spied  a  large  adder, 
which,  alarmed  either  at  my  step  or  the  sudden 
flight  of  the  bird,  was  gliding  quickly  away  over 
the  bed  of  old  dry  bleached  leaves  to  its  refuge  at 
the  roots  of  the  tree.  Oddly  enough,  it  was  not  the 
first  occasion  on  which  I  had  come  upon  a  night- jar 
and  adder  dozing  peacefully  side  by  side.  It  was 
a  beautiful  adder  of  a  rich  tawny  yellow  hue,  with 
an  intensely  black  broad  zigzag  mark,  and  as 
there  was  no  time  to  lose,  I  dashed  at  and  managed 
to  catch  it;  then  holding  it  up  by  the  tail,  what 


HINTS  TO  ADDER-SEEKERS         31 

was  my  surprise  and  delight  at  finding  its  under- 
surface  of  a  colour  or  "  shade  "  I  had  never  previ- 
ously seen  —  the  lovely  blue  I  have  mentioned. 
There  was  no  break  in  the  colour;  every  belly- 
plate  from  the  neck  to  the  tip  of  the  tail  was  of  a 
uniform  exquisite  turquoise  blue,  or  considering 
that  turquoise  blues  vary  in  depth  and  purity,  it 
would  be  more  exact  to  describe  the  colour  as 
most  like  that  of  the  forget-me-not,  but  being 
enamelled,  it  reminded  me  rather  of  the  most 
exquisite  blue  one  has  seen  on  some  priceless  piece 
of  old  Chinese  pottery.  I  think  that  if  some 
famous  aged  artist  of  the  great  period,  a  worshipper 
of  colour  whose  life  had  been  spent  in  the  long 
endeavour  to  capture  and  make  permanent  the 
most  exquisite  fleeting  tints  in  Nature,  had  seen 
the  blue  on  that  adder  he  would  have  been  over- 
come at  the  same  time  with  rapture  and  despair. 
And  I  think,  too,  that  if  Mother  Nature  in  turning 
out  this  ophidian  had  muddled  things,  as  she  is  apt 
to  do  occasionally,  and  had  reversed  the  position 
of  the  colours,  putting  the  tawny  yellow  and 
black  zigzag  band  on  the  belly  and  the  blue 
above,  the  sight  of  the  creature  would  have  given 
rise  to  a  New  Forest  myth.  It  would  have  been 
spread  abroad  that  an  angelic  being  had  appeared 
in  those  parts  in  the  form  of  a  serpent  but  in  its 
natural  celestial  colour. 

After  keeping  it  a  long  time  in  my  hand,  I 
released  it  reluctantly,  and  saw  it  steal  away  into 
the  cavity  at  the  roots  of  the  oak.     Here  was  its 


32      THE  BOOK  OF  A  NATURALIST 

home,  and  I  fondly  hoped  to  see  it  again  many 
times.  But  it  was  not  there  when  I  called  on  manj^ 
successive  days — neither  serpent  nor  night-jar;  but 
though  we  three  shall  meet  no  more,  I  remember 
the  finding  of  that  adder  as  one  of  the  loveliest 
experiences  I  have  met  with  during  all  the  years  I 
have  spent  in  conversing  with  wild  animals. 


Ill 

BATS 

The  bat  was  formerly  looked  upon  as  an  uncanny- 
sort  of  bird,  and  described  as  such  in  the  old 
natural  histories.  Oh,  those  ever  delightful  old 
natural  histories,  and  the  vision  of  the  wise  old 
naturalist  examining  a  recently-taken  specimen 
through  his  horn-bound  spectacles,  and  setting  it 
gravely  down  in  his  books  that  it  is  the  only  known 
bird  which  was  clothed  in  fur  in  place  of  feathers  I 
Or,  as  Plinius  puts  it,  the  only  bird  which  brings 
forth  and  suckles  its  young,  just  as  we  say  that  the 
Australian  water-mole  is  the  only  mammal  which 
lays  eggs.  The  modern  ornithologist  will  have 
nothing  to  do  with  the  creature;  but  after  his 
expulsion  from  the  feathered  nation  it  was  his 
singular  good  fortune  not  to  sink  lower  in  the 
scale;  he  was,  on  the  contrary,  raised  to  the 
mammalians,  or  quadrupeds,  as  our  fathers  called 
them;  then  on  the  discovery  being  made  that  he 
was  anatomically  related  to  the  lemurs,  he  was 
eventually  allotted  a  place  in  our  systems  next 
after  that  ancient  order  of  fox-faced  monkeys. 
And   thus   it   has   come   to   pass   that   when    some 

83 


34      THE  BOOK  OF  A  NATURALIST 

one  writes  a  book  on  the  mammals  of  this 
island,  which  has  no  monkeys  or  lemurs,  and  man 
cannot  be  included  in  such  works  on  account 
of  an  old  convention  or  prejudice,  he  is  obliged 
to  give  the  proud  first  place  to  this  very  poor 
relation. 

It  is  his  misfortune,  since  it  would  have  been 
more  agreeable  to  the  general  reader  if  he  could 
have  led  off  with  some  imposing  beast — the  extinct 
wolf  or  tusky  wild  boar,  for  example — or,  better 
still,  with  the  white  cattle  of  Chillingham,  or  the 
roaring  stag  with  his  grand  antlers.  The  last  is 
an  undoubted  survival,  one  which,  encountered  in 
some  incult  place  where  it  is  absolutely  free  and 
wild,  moves  us  to  a  strange  joy  —  an  inherited 
memory  and  a  vision  of  a  savage,  prehistoric  land 
of  which  we  are  truer  natives  than  we  can  ever  be 
of  this  smooth  sophisticated  England.  The  science 
of  zoology  could  not  have  it  so,  since  it  does  not 
and  cannot  take  man  and  his  mental  attitude 
towards  other  forms  of  life  into  account — cannot 
consider  the  fact  that  he  is  himself  an  animal  of 
prey,  several  feet  high,  with  large  eyes  fitted  to 
look  at  large  objects,  and  that  he  measures  and 
classifies  all  creatures  by  an  instinctive  rule  and 
standard,  mentally  pitting  his  strength  and  ferocity 
against  theirs.  What  a  discrepancy,  then,  between 
things  as  seen  by  the  natural  man  and  as  they 
appear  in  our  scientific  systems,  which  make  the 
small  negligible  bat  the  leader  of  the  procession  of 
British  beasts — even  this  repulsive  little  rearmouse, 


BATS  35 

or  flittermouse,  that  flits  from  his  evil-smelling 
cramiy,  in  appearance  a  misshapen  insect  of  un- 
usual size  to  pursue  his  crooked,  broken-boned, 
squeaky  flight  in  the  obscurity  of  evening. 

Imagine  the  effect  of  this  modern  rearrange- 
ment of  the  mammals  on  the  mammals  if  they 
knew!  The  white  bull  of  Ghillingham  would  shake 
his  frowning  front  and  the  stag  his  branching 
antlers  in  scorn;  the  wolf,  in  spite  of  being  extinct, 
would  howl;  the  British  seal  bark;  the  wild  cat 
snarl,  and  the  badger  make  free  use  of  his  most 
underground  expressions  of  rage  at  such  an  insult; 
rabbit  and  hare  would  exchange  looks  of  astonish- 
ment and  apprehension;  the  hedgehog  would  roll 
himself  into  a  ball  with  disgust;  the  mole  sink 
back  into  his  run;  the  fox  smile  sardonically;  and 
the  whole  concourse,  turning  their  backs  on  the 
contemptible  leader  thrust  on  them,  would  march 
off  in  the  opposite  direction. 

Now  the  imaginary  case  of  these  beasts  offended 
in  their  dignity  fairly  represents  that  of  humanity 
angry  at  the  intolerable  insult  implied  in  the 
Darwinian  notion.  But  we  have  now  so  far  out- 
grown that  feeling  that  it  is  no  longer  an  offence 
for  the  zoologist  to  tell  us  not  only  that  we  are 
related  to  the  lemur  with  its  luminous  opalescent 
or  topaz  eyes,  that  are  like  the  eyes  of  angels  and 
are  instinct  with  a  mysterious  intelligence  when 
they  look  at  us  with  a  strange  friendliness  in  them 
as  if  they  knew  what  we,  after  thousands  of  years  of 
thinking,  have  only  just  found  out — not  only  that 


36      THE  BOOK  OF  A  NATURALIST 

this  animal  is  our  relation,  but  even  such  a  creature 
as  the  bat! 

Look  on  this  picture,  and  on  this!  On  the  eyes, 
for  instance,  of  these  two  beasts,  and  we  see  at 
once  that  the  bat  is  an  example  of  extreme  degenera- 
tion; also  that  it  is  the  most  striking  example  in 
the  animal  world  of  a  degenerate  in  which  the 
downward  process  has  at  length  been  arrested,  and 
instead  of  extinction  a  new,  different,  and  probably 
infinitely  longer  life  given  to  it. 

We  are  reminded  of  the  flea — the  remote  de- 
scendant, as  we  deem,  of  a  gilded  fly  that  was 
once  free  of  the  air  and  feasted  at  the  same  sunlit 
flowery  table  with  bright-winged  butterflies  and 
noble  wasps  and  bees. 

There  are  those  who  have  doubts  about  this 
genealogical  tree  of  the  bat,  and  would  have  it 
that  he  is  an  insectivore  related  to  moles,  shrews, 
and  such-like  low-down  animals,  but  the  main  facts 
all  point  the  other  way.  And  we  may  assume  that 
the  bat — our  familiar  flittermouse,  since  we  are  not 
concerned  with  the  somewhat  different  frugivorous 
bats  of  the  tropics — is  the  remote  descendant  of  a 
small  degenerate  lemur  that  inhabited  the  upper 
branches  of  high  trees  in  the  African  forest;  that 
he  became  exclusively  insectivorous  and  developed 
an  extreme  activity  in  capturing  his  winged  prey, 
and  was  in  fact  like  the  existing  small  lemur,  the 
golago,  which  in  pursuing  insects  "  seems  literally 
to  fly  through  the  air,"  as  Sir  H.  Johnston  has 
said.    Finally,  there  was  the  further  development, 


BATS  37 

the  ovidean  metamorphosis,  when  the  loose  ex- 
panding membrane  of  the  hands  and  arms  and 
sides  grew  to  wings. 

But  albeit  like  a  bird  in  its  faculty  of  flight,  the 
bat  was  a  mammal  still,  and  was  rather  like  a  badly 
constructed  flying-machine,  at  best  an  improvement 
on  the  parachute.  This  then  was  a  risky  experi- 
ment on  Nature's  part,  seeing  that  to  launch  a 
mammal  on  the  air  is  to  put  it  into  competition 
with  birds,  and  throw  it  in  the  way  of  its  rapacious 
bird  enemies,  natives  of  that  element  and  infinitely 
its  superior  in  flying  powers.  But  Nature,  we  see, 
takes  risks  of  this  kind  with  a  very  light  heart; 
her  busy  brain  teems  with  thousands,  millions,  of 
inventions,  and  if  nine  hundred  and  ninety-nine  in 
a  thousand  go  wrong,  she  simply  scraps  them  and 
goes  cheerfully  on  with  her  everlasting  business. 
An  amusing  person!  One  can  imagine  some 
Principality  or  High  Intelligence,  a  visitor  from 
Aldebaran,  let  us  say,  looking  on  at  these  queer 
doings  on  her  part  and  remarking:  "My  dear, 
what  a  silly  fool  you  are  to  waste  so  much  energy 
in  trying  to  do  an  impossible  thing." 

And — nettled  at  his  air  of  superiority — her 
sharp  reply: 

"  Oh  yes,  now  you  say  that,  I'm  reminded  of  a 
visitor  I  once  had  from — oh,  I  don't  know  exactly 
where — somewhere  in  the  Milky  Way — just  when 
I  was  experimenting  with  my  snake  idea.  To  make 
a  vertebrate  without  any  organs  of  progression,  yet 
capable  of  getting  freely  about — ha,  ha,  ha,  how 


38      THE  BOOK  OF  A  NATURALIST 

very  funny!  I'd  like  him  to  come  back  now  to 
show  him  a  tree-snake  with  a  cylindrical  body  two 
yards  long  and  no  thicker  than  a  man's  middle 
finger,  green  as  a  green  leaf  and  smooth  as  ivory, 
going  as  freely  about  in  a  tree  as  a  cat  or  a  monkey. 
Also  my  blue  sea-snake,  cleaving  the  water  like  a 
fish;  also  my  ground-serpents  of  numberless  types, 
moving  swiftly  over  the  earth  with  a  grace  sur- 
passing that  of  creatures  endowed  with  organs  of 
progression." 

But  not  a  word  did  she  say  about  the  flying-fish, 
which  was  not  a  great  success. 

Then  he:  "Well,  I  should  advise  the  person 
from  the  Milky  Way  to  keep  out  of  your  way.  No 
doubt  you  have  done  clever  things,  but  the  snake 
problem  was  not  so  very  difficult  after  all.  You 
thought  of  the  rib  and  the  scale,  and  the  thing 
was  done." 

And  she:  "  Yes,  it  was  quite  simple,  and  so 
when  I  wanted  to  make  reptiles  fly  I  thought  of 
this  and  of  that  and  of  something  else  and  the 
thing  was  done." 

Then  he:  "Yes,  yes,  my  dear  lady — that  was 
clever,  too,  no  doubt;  only  your  flying  lizard 
wasn't  wound  up  to  go  on  for  ever — not  as  a  lizard 
at  all  events;  and  what  I  should  like  you  to  tell 
me  is:  When  you  have  got  your  little  beast  in  the 
air  how  are  you  going  to  get  him  to  stay  there?" 

Her  sharp  reply  was :  "  By  thinking,"  for  she 
was  angry  at  his  supercilious  Aldebaran  airs.  And, 
put  on  her  mettle,  it  was  only  by  sheer  hard  think- 


BATS  39 

ing  that  she  finally  succeeded  in  accomplishing  her 
object — this,  too,  as  it  were,  by  means  of  a  subtle 
trick.  For  the  bird  problem  had  been  a  very 
different  one;  her  experiments  with  flying  lizards 
had  suggested  it,  and  she  was  able  to  create  this 
new  and  finer  being  an  inhabitant  of  the  air  by 
giving  it  its  peculiar  pointed  wedge  shape,  its 
covering  of  feathers,  with  feathers  for  flight — hard 
as  steel,  hght  as  gossamer,  bloodless,  nerveless. 
And  correlated  with  shape  and  flight  and  life  in 
the  air,  a  development  of  power  of  vision  which, 
compared  with  that  of  mammals  and  reptiles,  is 
like  a  supernatural  faculty. 

Her  subtle  trick,  in  the  case  of  the  bat,  was  to 
reverse  the  process  followed  in  building  up  the  bird; 
to  suspend  her  beast  head  down  by  the  toes  instead 
of  making  him  perch  with  his  head  up  to  keep  it  cool; 
to  neglect  the  vision  altogether  as  of  little  or  no 
account;  and,  on  the  other  hand,  instead  of  the 
light,  hard,  nerveless  feather  wings,  to  make  the 
flying  apparatus  the  most  sensitive  thing  in  Nature, 
barring  the  antennae  of  insects;  a  bed  and  field  of 
nerves,  so  closely  placed  as  to  give  the  membrane 
the  appearance  of  the  finest,  softest  shot  silk.  The 
brains  of  the  creature,  as  it  were,  are  carried  spread 
out  on  its  wings,  and  so  exquisitely  delicate  is  the 
sensitiveness  of  these  parts  that  in  comparison 
our  finger-tips  are  no  more  quick  of  feeling  than 
the  thick  tough  hide  of  some  lumbering  pachyderm. 

I  have  handled  scores  of  bats  in  my  time,  and 
have   never   had    one    in   my   hand    without    being 


40     THE  BOOK  OF  A  NATURALIST 

struck  by  its  shrinking,  shivering  motions,  the 
tremors  that  passed  over  it  like  wave  following 
wave,  and  it  has  seemed  to  me  that  the  touch  of 
a  soft  finger-tip  on  its  wing  was  to  the  bat  like  a 
blow  of  a  cheese-  or  bread-grater  on  his  naked  body 
to  a  man. 

Now  any  one,  even  the  intelligent  foreigner  from 
Aldebaran,  would  have  imagined  that  such  a 
creature  so  constructed  would  not  have  main- 
tained its  existence  in  this  rough  world:  a  sudden 
storm  of  rain  or  hail  encountered  in  mid-air  would 
have  destroyed  it,  and  in  its  pursuit  of  insects  in 
leafy  places  it  would  have  been  exposed  every 
minute  to  disabling  accidents.  But  it  did  not 
happen  so.  That  exquisite  super-sensitiveness,  that 
extra  sense,  or  extra  senses,  since  we  do  not  know 
how  many  there  are,  not  only  kept  it  in  the  air, 
able  to  continue  the  struggle  of  life  in  the  particular 
forest,  the  district,  the  region,  the  continent  where 
it  came  into  being,  but  sent  it  abroad,  an  invader 
and  colonist,  to  other  lands,  other  continents  all 
over  the  globe,  including  those  far  -  off  isolated 
islands  which  had  been  cut  off  from  all  connexion 
with  the  rest  of  the  earth  before  mammalian  life 
was  evolved,  and  had  no  higher  life  than  birds, 
until  this  small  beast  came  flying  over  the  illimit- 
able ocean  on  his  wings,  to  be  followed  a  million 
years  later  by  his  noble  relation  in  a  canoe. 

We  see  then  that  the  bat  is  a  very  wonderful 
creature,  one  of  Nature's  triumphs  and  master- 
pieces, and  on  this  account  he  has  received  a  good 


BATS  41 

share  of  attention  from  the  zoologists.  Neverthe- 
less, after  looking  through  a  large  amount  of 
literature  on  the  subject,  the  old  idea  persists  that 
we  know  little  about  the  bat — little,  that  is  to  say, 
compared  with  all  there  is  to  be  known.  How  very 
little  my  own  researches  can  add  to  its  life  history 
these  meagre  observations  and  comments  will  serve 
to  show. 

Walking  by  the  Test,  near  Longparish,  one 
evening,  I  noticed  a  number  of  noctules,  our  great 
bat,  gathered  at  a  spot  where  some  high  trees,  elms 
and  beeches,  grew  on  the  edge  of  a  wet  meadow. 
The  bats  were  flying  up  and  down  in  front  of  the 
trees,  feasting  on  the  moths  and  other  insects  that 
abounded  there.  I  wondered  how  it  came  about 
that  these  big  bats  had  this  rich  table  all  to  them- 
selves, seeing  that  the  small  common  bat  is  by  far 
the  most  numerous  species  in  that  locality.  After 
I  had  stood  there  watching  them  for  a  few  minutes 
a  common  bat  appeared,  and  at  once  began  flying 
to  and  fro  among  them;  but  very  soon  he  was 
spotted  and  attacked  by  a  big  bat,  and  then  began 
the  maddest  chase  it  was  possible  to  see,  the  little 
one  doubling  wildly  this  way  and  that,  now  mount- 
ing high  in  the  air,  then  plunging  downward  to  the 
grass,  anon  losing  himself  in  the  trees,  to  reappear 
in  a  few  moments  with  his  vicious  persecutor 
sticking  so  close  that  the  two  often  seemed  like  one 
bat.  Finally,  they  went  away  out  of  sight  in  the 
distance,  and  keeping  my  eyes  in  the  direction  they 
had  gone,  I  saw  the  big  one  return  alone  in  about 


42     THE  BOOK  OF  A  NATURALIST 

seven  or  eight  minutes  and  resume  his  flying  up 
and  down  with  the  others.  It  struck  me  that  if  I 
could  have  followed  or  kept  them  in  sight  to  the 
finish  I  should  probably  have  witnessed  a  little 
tragedy:  the  terror  of  the  one  and  the  fury  of  the 
other  suggested  such  an  end.  The  keen  teeth  once 
fixed  in  his  victim's  neck,  the  noctule  would  wash 
his  supper  of  moths  and  beetles  down  with  a 
draught  of  warm  blood,  then  drop  the  dead  body 
to  the  earth  before  returning  to  his  companions. 
This  is  conjecture;  but  we  know  that  bats  have 
carnivorous  propensities,  and  that  in  some  exotic 
kinds  the  big  will  kill  the  little,  even  their  own 
young.  Probably  they  all  have  something  of  the 
vampire  in  them.  The  female  bat  is  a  most  devoted 
parent,  carrying  her  young  about  when  fiying, 
wrapping  them  round  with  her  silken  wings  as  with 
a  shawl  when  in  repose,  suckling  them  at  her  breast 
even  as  the  highest  of  the  mammalians  do.  One 
would  not  be  surprised  to  learn  that  the  deadliest 
enemy  of  her  little  ones,  the  one  she  fears  most,  is 
her  own  consort. 

Whether  bats  migrate  or  not  has  long  been  a 
moot  question,  and  Millais,  our  latest  authority, 
and  certainly  one  of  the  best,  has  answered  it  in 
the  affirmative.  But  the  migration  he  describes 
is  nothing  but  a  change  of  locality — a  retirement 
from  their  summer  haunts  to  some  spot  suitable 
for  hibernation,  in  some  instances  but  a  few  miles 
distant.  Other  hibernating  creatures — serpents,  for 
example — have  the   same   habit,   and  though  com- 


BATS  43 

pelled  to  travel  on  their  bellies,  they  do  neverthe- 
less return  year  after  year  to  the  old  laying-up 
places.  The  question  of  a  seasonal  movement  in 
bats,  similar  to  migration  in  birds,  greatly  exercised 
my  young  mind  in  former  years  in  a  country  where 
bats  had  no  business  to  be.  This  was  the  level, 
grassy,  practically  treeless  immensity  of  the  pampas, 
where  there  were  no  hollow  trunks,  nor  caves  and 
holes  for  bats  to  shelter  in,  nor  ruins  and  buildings 
of  brick  and  stone  which  would  be  a  substitute  for 
natural  caverns.  Human  dwellings  were  mostly 
mud  and  straw  hovels,  and  the  only  trees  were  those 
planted  by  man,  and  were  not  large  and  could  not 
grow  old.  The  violent  winds  swept  this  floor  of  the 
world,  which  was  unsheltered  like  the  sea.  Yet 
punctually  in  spring  the  bats  appeared  along  with 
the  later  bird  migrants,  and  were  common  until 
April,  when  they  vanished,  and  then  for  six  months 
no  bat  would  be  seen  in  or  out  of  doors.  Clearly, 
then,  they  were  strictly  migratory,  able  like  birds 
to  travel  hundreds  of  miles  and  to  distribute  them- 
selves over  a  vast  area.  They  were,  in  fact,  both 
migrants  and  hibernators,  since  we  cannot  but 
suppose  that  they  forsook  the  pampas  only  to  find 
some  distant  place  where  they  could  pass  their 
inactive  period  in  safety. 

At  one  point,  about  two  hundred  miles  south 
of  Buenos  Ayres  city,  the  level  pampa  is  broken  by 
a  range  of  stony  hills,  or  sierras,  standing  above 
the  flat  earth  like  precipitous  cliffs  that  face  the 
sea.     On  my   first  visit  to   that   spot   I   travelled 


44      THE  BOOK  OF  A  NATURALIST 

with  a  party  of  eight  or  nine  gauchos,  and  evening 
coming  on  near  our  destination,  we  camped  about 
a  league  from  the  foot  of  the  hills  and  built  a  big 
fire.  Just  as  we  had  got  a  good  blaze  a  loud  cry 
of  "  Morcielagos ! "  (bats)  from  one  of  the  men 
made  us  look  up,  and  there,  overhead,  appeared  a 
multitude  of  bats,  attracted  by  the  glare,  rushing 
about  in  the  maddest  manner,  like  a  cloud  of 
demented  swifts.  In  a  few  moments  they  vanished, 
and  we  saw  no  more  of  them.  Bats,  I  found,  were 
extremely  abundant  among  these  hills,  and  here 
they  were  probably  non-migratory. 

But  the  main  question  about  bats  is  always  that 
of  their  sense-organs,  in  which  they  differ  not  only 
from  all  other  mammalians  but  from  all  verte- 
brates, and  if  in  this  there  is  any  resemblance  or 
analogue  to  any  other  form  of  life  it  is  to  the 
insect.  As  to  insect  senses  we  are  very  much  in 
the  dark.  The  number  of  them  may  be  seven  or 
seventeen,  since  insects  appear  to  be  affected  by 
vibrations  which  do  not  touch  us.  We  exist,  it 
has  been  said,  in  a  bath  of  vibrations;  so  do  all 
living  things;  but  in  our  case  the  parts  by  which 
they  enter  are  few;  so  too  with  all  other  verte- 
brates except  the  bat  alone,  and  a  puzzle  and 
mystery  he  remains.  What,  for  example,  are  the 
functions  of  the  transverse  bands  on  the  wings 
formed  of  minute  glands;  the  enormous  expanse 
of  ears  in  the  long-eared  bat;  the  earlet,  a  curious 
development  of  the  tragus;  and  the  singular  leaf- 
like   developments    on   the   nose   of   the    horseshoe 


BATS  45 

bat?  We  suppose  that  they  are  sense-organs,  but 
all  we  know,  or  half  know,  about  the  matter  is 
ancient  history;  it  dates  back  to  the  eighteenth 
century,  when  Spallanzani,  finding  that  bats  were 
independent  of  sight  when  blinded  and  set  flying 
in  winding  tunnels  and  other  confined  places, 
conjectured  that  they  were  endowed  with  a  sixth 
sense.  Cuvier's  explanation  of  these  experiments 
was  that  the  propinquity  of  solid  bodies  is  per- 
ceived by  the  way  in  which  the  air,  moved  by  the 
pulsations,  reacts  on  the  surface  of  the  wings. 
Thus  the  sixth  sense  was  a  refinement,  or  extension, 
of  the  sense  of  touch — an  excessive  sensitiveness  in 
the  membrane.  Blind  men,  we  know,  sometimes 
have  a  similar  extreme  sensibility  of  the  skin  of  the 
face.  I  have  known  one  who  was  accustomed  to 
spend  some  hours  walking  every  day  in  Kensington 
Gardens,  taking  short  cuts  in  any  direction  among 
the  trees  and  never  touching  one,  and  no  person 
seeing  him  moving  so  freely  about  would  have 
imagined  that  he  was  totally  blind. 

My  own  experiments  on  bats  in  South  America 
were  inconclusive.  I  used  to  collect  a  dozen  or 
twenty  at  a  time,  finding  them  sleeping  by  day 
on  the  trees  in  shady  places,  and  after  seahng  up 
their  eyes  with  adhesive  gum,  liberate  them  in  a 
large  room  furnished  with  hanging  ropes  and 
objects  of  various  sizes  suspended  from  the  rafters. 
The  bats  flew  about  without  touching  the  walls, 
and  deftly  avoiding  the  numerous  obstacles;  but 
I  soon  discovered  that  they  were  able  when  flying 


46     THE  BOOK  OF  A  NATURALIST 

to  use  the  hooked  claw  on  the  wing  to  scratch  the 
gum  away  and  pull  the  eyelids  open,  and  when- 
ever one  came  to  grief  I  found  that  its  lids  had  not 
been  opened. 

One  can  see  at  once  that  an  experiment  of  this 
kind  is  useless.  The  irritation  of  the  gum  and  the 
efforts  being  made  to  remove  it  by  the  animal  while 
flying  cloud  the  extra  sense  or  senses,  and  it  loses 
its    efficiency. 

What  the  bat  can  do  I  discovered  by  chance  one 
summer  afternoon  in  an  English  lane.  It  was  one 
of  those  deep  Hampshire  lanes  one  finds  between 
Selborne  and  Prior's  Dean,  where  I  was  walking 
just  before  sunset,  when  two  common  bats  appeared 
flying  up  and  down  the  lane  in  quest  of  flies,  and 
always  on  coming  to  me  they  circled  round  and 
then  made  a  vicious  little  stoop  at  my  head  as  if 
threatening  to  strike.  My  brown  and  grey  striped 
or  mottled  tweed  caps  and  hats  have  often  got  me 
into  trouble  with  birds,  as  I  have  told  in  a  chapter 
in  Birds  and  Man,  and  it  was  probably  the  colour 
of  my  cap  on  this  occasion  that  excited  the 
animosity  of  this  pair  of  bats.  Again  and  again 
I  waved  my  stick  over  my  head  on  seeing  one 
approach,  but  it  had  not  the  slightest  effect — the 
bat  would  duck  past  it  and  pass  over  my  cap,  just 
grazing  it  boldly  as  ever.  Then  I  thought  of  a 
way  to  frighten  them.  My  cane  was  a  slim  pliable 
one,  which  gave  me  no  support,  and  was  used 
merely  to  have  something  in  my  hand — a  thin 
little  cane  such  as  soldiers  carry  in  their  hands  off 


BATS  47 

duty.  Holding  it  above  my  head,  I  caused  it  to 
spin  round  so  rapidly  that  it  was  no  longer  a  cane 
in  appearance,  but  a  funnel-shaped  mist  moving 
with  and  above  me  as  I  walked.  "  Now,  you  little 
rascal,"  said  I,  chuckling  to  myself  as  the  bat 
came;  then  making  the  usual  quick  circle  he 
dashed  down  through  the  side  of  the  misty  ob- 
struction, made  his  demonstration  over  my  cap, 
and  passed  out  on  the  other  side.  I  could  hardly 
credit  the  evidence  of  my  own  eyes,  and  thought 
he  had  escaped  a  blow  by  pure  luck,  and  that  if 
he  attempted  it  a  second  time  he  would  certainly 
be  killed.  I  didn't  want  to  kill  him,  but  the  thing 
was  really  too  remarkable  to  be  left  in  doubt,  and 
so  I  resumed  the  whirling  of  the  stick  over  my 
head,  and  in  another  moment  the  second  bat  came 
along,  and,  like  the  first,  dashed  down  at  my  cap, 
passing  in  and  out  of  the  vortex  with  perfect  ease 
and  safety!  Again  and  again  they  doubled  back 
and  repeated  the  action  without  touching  the 
stick,  and  after  witnessing  it  a  dozen  or  fifteen 
times  I  could  still  hardly  believe  that  their  escape 
from  injury  was  anything  but  pure  chance. 

Here  I  recall  the  most  wonderful  flying  feat  I 
have  witnessed  in  birds — a  very  common  one. 
Frequently  when  standing  still  among  the  trees 
of  a  plantation  or  wood  where  humming-birds 
abounded,  I  have  had  one  dart  at  me,  invisible 
owing  to  the  extreme  swiftness  of  its  flight,  to 
become  visible — to  materialise,  as  it  were — only 
when  it  suddenly  arrested  its  flight  within  a  few 


48     THE  BOOK  OF  A  NATURALIST 

inches  of  my  face,  to  remain  there  suspended 
motionless  like  a  hover-fly  on  misty  wings  that 
produced  a  loud  humming  sound;  and  when  thus 
suspended,  it  has  turned  its  body  to  the  right,  then 
to  the  left,  then  completely  round  as  if  to  exhibit 
its  beauty — its  brilliant  scale-like  feathers  changing 
their  colours  in  the  sunlight  as  it  turned.  Then, 
in  a  few  seconds,  its  curiosity  gratified,  it  has 
darted  away,  barely  visible  as  a  faint  dark  line  in 
the  air,  and  vanished  perhaps  into  the  intricate 
branches  of  some  tree,  a  black  acacia  perhaps, 
bristling  with  long  needle-sharp  thorns. 

The  humming-bird  is  able  to  perform  this  feat  a 
hundred  times  every  day  with  impunity  by  means 
of  its  brilliant  vision  and  the  exquisitely  perfect 
judgement  of  the  brilliant  little  brain  behind  the 
sight.  But  I  take  it  that  if  the  bird  had  attempted 
the  feat  of  the  bat  it  would  have  killed  itself. 

It  is  a  rule  in  wild  life  that  nothing  is  attempted 
which  is  not  perfectly  safe,  though  to  us  the  action 
may  appear  dangerous  in  the  extreme,  or  even 
impossible.  At  all  events,  I  can  say  that  these 
bats  in  a  Selborne  lane  taught  me  more  than  all 
the  books — they  made  me  see  and  understand  the 
perfection  of  that  extra  sense. 

But  it  is  just  that  same  sense  which  Spallanzani 
and  Cuvier  wrote  about,  and  we  cannot  but  think 
that  the  bat  has  something  more  than  this.  That 
peculiar  disposition  of  glands  and  nerves  on  the 
wings,  the  enormous  size  of  the  ear  in  the  great- 
eared  bat,  the  ear-leaf,  and  leaf -nose,  and  the  other 


BATS  49 

developments  and  excrescences  on  the  face  which 
give  to  some  species  a  more  grotesque  comitenance 
than  was  ever  imagined  by  any  medieval  artist  in 
stone — these  are  doubtless  all  sense-organs,  and  the 
question  is,  are  these  all  additions  to  the  one  sense 
we  know  of — an  extension  and  refinement  of  the 
sense  of  touch?  I  think  they  are  more  than  that, 
and  there  are  a  few  facts  that  incline  one  to  believe 
that  knowledge  comes  to  the  bat  through  more 
ports  than  one — knowledge  of  things  far  as  well 
as  near.  One  observation  made  by  Millais  points 
to  this  conclusion.  He  noticed  that  a  crowd  of 
noctule  bats  that  sheltered  in  a  hollow  tree  by  day, 
on  issuing  in  the  evening  all  took  flight  in  the  same 
direction,  and  that  the  line  of  flight  was  not  the 
same,  but  varied  from  day  to  day;  that  on  follow- 
ing them  up  to  the  feeding  area  he  discovered  that 
insects  were  always  most  abundant  at  that  spot  on 
that  evening.  It  came  to  this — that  on  issuing 
from  the  hollow  tree  every  bat  in  the  crowd, 
issuing  one  or  two  at  a  time  and  flying  straight 
away,  knew  where  to  go,  south,  east,  west  or 
north,  to  some  spot  a  mile  or  two  away.  The  bat 
too,  then,  like  the  far-seeing  vulture,  is  "  sagacious 
of  his  quarry  from  afar,"  but  what  Nature  has 
given  him  in  place  of  his  dim,  degenerate  eyes  to 
make  him  sagacious  in  this  way  remains  to  be 
found  out. 


IV 

BEAUTY  OF  THE  FOX 

It  is  only  by  a  fortunate  chance,  a  rare  conjunction 
of  circumstances,  that  we  are  able  to  see  any  wild 
animal  at  its  best.  And  by  animal  it  must  be 
explained  is  here  meant  a  hair-clothed  vertebrate 
that  suckles  its  young  and  goes  on  four  feet. 

Chiefly  on  this  account  it  would  be  hard  in  any 
company  of  men  well  acquainted  with  our  fauna 
to  find  two  persons  to  agree  as  to  which  is  the 
handsomest  or  prettiest  of  our  indigenous  mammals. 

Undoubtedly  the  stag,  one  would  exclaim: 
another  would  perhaps  venture  to  name  the  field- 
mouse,  or  the  dormouse,  or  the  water-vole,  that 
quaint  miniature  beaver  in  his  sealskin-coloured 
coat,  sitting  erect  on  the  streamlet's  margin 
busily  nibbling  at  the  pale  end  of  a  polished  rush 
stalk  which  he  has  cut  off  at  the  root  and  is  now 
holding  clasped  to  his  breast  with  his  little  hands. 
Any  one  who  had  thus  seen  him,  the  brown  sunlit 
bank,  with  its  hanging  drapery  of  foliage  and 
flowers  for  background,  reflected  in  the  clear  water 
below,  could  well  be  pardoned  for  praising  his 
beauty  and  giving  him  the  palm.     Another  would 

50 


BEAUTY  OF  THE  FOX  51 

champion  the  squirrel,  that  pretty,  passionate 
creature,  most  birdhke  of  mammals;  and  some 
white-haired  veteran  sportsman  would  perhaps 
speak  in  glowing  terms  of  the  wild  cat  as  seen  in  a 
tearing  rage.  A  word,  too,  would  be  spoken  for 
the  otter,  and  the  weasel,  and  the  hare,  and  the 
harvest  -  mouse,  and  the  white  Chillingham  bull, 
and  the  wild  goat  on  the  Welsh  mountains.  These 
two  last,  after  some  discussion,  would  doubtless  be 
disquahfied,  and  the  roe  and  fallow  deer  entered 
instead;  but  no  person  would  say  a  word  about 
the  wolf  and  wild  boar,  the  last  of  these  noble 
quadrupeds  having  been  slain  by  some  Royal 
hunter  half  a  thousand  or  more  years  ago.  And 
no  one  would  mention  the  marten,  or  even  know 
whether  or  not,  like  the  wolf  and  'boar,  it  had 
become  "  part  and  parcel  of  the  dreadful  past." 
Some  one  would,  however,  put  in  a  plea  for  the 
hermit  badger — one  with  sharper  sight  or  more 
patient  than  the  others,  or  perhaps  more  Tortunate; 
and  the  company  would  be  highly  amused. 

The  rough,  grizzled  brock,  our  little  British  bear, 
would  perhaps  be  better  described  as  a  fearsome 
or  sublime  than  a  beautiful  beast.  At  all  events, 
I  lately  had  a  singular  instance  of  the  terrifying 
effect  of  a  badger  related  to  me  by  a  rural  pohce- 
man  in  West  Cornwall,  a  giant  six  feet  six  in  height, 
a  mighty  wrestler,  withal  a  sober,  rehgious  man, 
himself  a  terror  to  all  evil-doers  in  the  place.  His 
beat  extends  on  one  side  to  the  border  of  a  wide, 
level  moor,  and  one  very  dark   night  last  winter 


52     THE  BOOK  OF  A  NATURALIST 

he  was  at  this  desolate  spot  when  he  heard  the 
distant  sound  of  a  horse  cantering  over  the  ground. 
The  heavy  rains  had  flooded  the  land,  and  he  heard 
the  splash  of  the  hoofs  as  the  horse  came  towards 
him.  "Who  could  this  be  out  on  horseback  at 
twelve  o'clock  on  a  dark  winter  night? "  he  asked 
himself;  and  listened  and  waited  while  the  sound 
grew  louder  and  louder  and  came  nearer  and 
nearer,  and  he  strained  his  eyes  to  see  the  figure 
of  a  man  on  horseback  emerging  from  the  gloom, 
and  could  see  nothing.  Then  it  suddenly  came  into 
his  mind  that  it  was  no  material  horseman,  but  a 
spirit  accustomed  to  ride  at  that  hour  in  that  place, 
and  his  hair  stood  up  on  his  head  like  the  bristles 
on  a  pig's  back.  "  It  almost  hfted  my  helmet  off," 
he  confessed,  and  he  would  have  fled,  but  his 
trembling  legs  refused  to  move.  Then,  all  at  once, 
when  he  was  about  to  drop,  fainting  with  extreme 
terror,  the  cause  of  the  sound  appeared — an  old 
dog  badger  trotting  over  the  flooded  moor,  vigor- 
ously pounding  the  water  with  his  feet,  and  making 
as  much  noise  as  a  trotting  horse  with  his  hoofs. 
The  badger  was  seven  or  eight  yards  away  when 
he  first  caught  sight  of  him,  and  the  badger,  too, 
then  saw  a  sublime  and  terrifying  creature  stand- 
ing motionless  before  him,  and  for  a  few  moments 
they  stared  at  one  another;  then  the  badger  turned 
aside  and  vanished  into  the  darkness. 

To  return.  It  was  the  sight  of  a  fox  that  set 
me  speculating  on  this  subject.  I  have  seen  more 
foxes  than  I  can  remember,  but  never  one  that  was 


BEAUTY  OF  THE  FOX  53 

the  equal  of  this  one;  yet  he  was,  I  daresay,  an 
ordinary  specimen,  with  nothing  to  distinguish  him 
from  any  other  large  dog  fox  in  good  condition 
with  a  fine  coat  of  hair  and  a  thick  brush.  It  was 
in  Savernake  Forest  that,  on  emerging  from  a 
beech-wood,  I  noticed  at  a  distance  of  seventy  to 
eighty  yards  away  on  the  wide  green  level  open 
space  before  me  a  number  of  rabbits  sitting  up  at 
the  mouths  of  their  burrows,  all  staring  in  wide- 
eyed  alarm  in  one  direction.  Not  at  me,  but 
towards  a  patch  of  dead  rust-red  bracken,  some 
clumps  of  which  were  still  standing,  although  the 
time  was  now  the  end  of  March.  At  intervals 
some  of  the  rabbits  would  drop  their  fore-feet 
down  and  begin  nibbling  at  the  grass;  then  in  a 
moment  they  would  all  start  up  and  stare  once 
more  at  the  patch  of  bracken.  I  walked  slowly  to 
this  red  patch,  and  when  I  approached  it  a  large 
fox  got  up  and  moved  reluctantly  away.  The 
rough  red  fern  on  which  he  had  been  lying  had 
made  him  invisible  to  me  until  he  moved;  but  he 
had  been  plainly  visible  to  the  rabbits  all  the  time. 
He  trotted  quietly  away  to  a  distance  of  about 
forty  yards,  then  stopped,  and  half  turning  round, 
stood  regarding  me  for  some  time.  Standing  on 
that  carpet  of  vivid  green  spring  grass,  with  the 
clear  morning  sunlight  full  on  him,  his  red  colour 
took  an  intensity  and  richness  never  previously 
seen.  In  form  he  appeared  no  less  distinguished 
than  in  colour.  His  sharp,  subtle  face,  large,  leaf- 
shaped    pointed    ears,    black    without    and    white 


54     THE  BOOK  OF  A  NATURALIST 

within,  and  graceful  bushy  tail,  gave  him  the 
appearance  of  a  dog  idealised  and  made  beautiful; 
and  he  was  to  the  rough  brown  or  red  common  dog 
what  the  finest  human  type — a  model  for  a  Phidias 
or  a  Praxiteles — is  to  a  Connemara  peasant  or  a 
Greenlander. 


A  SENTIMENTALIST  ON  FOXES 

It  was  inevitable  in  these  tremendous  times  that 
among  the  many  voices  suggesting  various  drastic 
measures  for  our  salvation,  those  of  Mr.  Brown 
and  Mr.  Smith,  the  poultry  farmers,  should  be 
heard  loud  as  any  advocating  the  extirpation  of 
foxes,  a  measure,  they  say,  which  would  result  in 
a  considerable  addition  to  the  food  supply  of  the 
country  in  the  form  of  eggs  and  chickens.  Even 
so  do  the  fruit-growers  remind  us  in  each  recurring 
spring  that  it  would  be  an  immense  advantage  to 
the  country  if  the  village  children  were  given  one 
or  two  holidays  each  week  in  March  and  April,  and 
sent  out  to  hunt  and  destroy  queen  wasps,  every 
wasp  brought  in  to  be  paid  for  by  a  bun  at  the 
pubhc  cost.  That  the  wasp,  an  eater  of  ripe  fruit, 
is  also  for  six  months  every  year  a  greedy  devourer 
of  caterpillars  and  flies  injurious  to  plant  life,  is  a 
fact  the  fruit-grower  ignores.  The  fox,  too,  has 
his  uses  to  the  farmer,  seeing  that  he  subsists 
largely  on  rats,  mice,  and  voles,  but  he  has  a  greater 
and  nobler  use,  as  the  one  four-footed  creature  left 
to  us  in  these  islands  to  be  hunted,  seeing  that 
65 


56     THE  BOOK  OF  A  NATURALIST 

without  this  glorious  sport  we  should  want  horses 
for  our  cavalry,  and  men  of  the  right  kind  on  their 
backs,  to  face  the  Huns  who  would  destroy  us. 

Apart  from  all  these  questions  and  considera- 
tions, which  humanitarians  would  laugh  at,  the  fox 
is  a  being  one  cannot  help  loving.  For  he  is,  like 
man's  servant  and  friend  the  dog,  highly  intelligent, 
and  is  to  the  good  honest  dog  like  the  picturesque 
and  predatory  gipsy  to  the  respectable  member  of 
the  community.  He  is  a  rascal,  if  you  like,  but  a 
handsome  red  rascal,  with  a  sharp,  clever  face  and 
a  bushy  tail,  and  good  to  meet  in  any  green  place. 
This  feehng  of  admiration  and  friendliness  for  the 
fox  is  occasionally  the  cause  of  a  qualm  of  conscience 
in  even  the  most  hardened  old  hunter.  "  By  gad, 
he  deserved  to  escape!"  is  a  not  uncommon  ex- 
clamation in  the  field,  or,  "  I  wish  we  had  been 
able  to  spare  him!  "  or  even,  "  It  was  really  hardly 
fair  to  kill  him." 

Here  let  me  relate  an  old  forgotten  fox  story — 
a  hunting  incident  of  about  eighty  years  ago — and 
how  it  first  came  to  be  told.  When  J.  Britton,  a 
labourer's  son  in  a  small  agricultural  village  in 
Wiltshire,  and  in  later  life  the  author  of  many  big 
volumes  on  the  "  Beauties  of  England  and  Wales," 
came  up  to  London  to  earn  a  precarious  living  as 
bottle-washer,  newspaper  office  boy,  and  in  various 
other  ways,  it  was  from  the  first  his  ambition  to 
see  himself  in  print,  and  eventually,  because  of  his 
importunity,  he  was  allowed  by  a  kindly  editor  to 
write  a  paragraph  relating  some  little  incident  of 


A  SENTIMENTALIST  ON  FOXES      57 

his  early  years.  What  he  wrote  was  the  fox  story — 
a  hunting  incident  in  the  village  that  had  deeply 
impressed  his  boy  mind.  The  fox,  hard  pressed, 
and  running  for  dear  life,  came  into  the  village  and 
took  refuge  in  a  labourer's  cottage,  and  entering 
by  the  kitchen  door,  passed  into  an  inner  room, 
and,  jumping  into  a  cradle  where  a  baby  was 
sleeping,  concealed  himself  under  the  covering. 
The  baby's  mother  had  gone  out  a  little  way,  but 
presently  seeing  the  street  in  a  commotion,  full 
of  dogs  and  mounted  men,  she  flew  back  to  her 
cottage  and  rushed  to  the  cradle,  and  plucking 
off  the  coverlet  saw  the  fox  snugly  curled  up  by 
the  side  of  her  child,  pretending  to  be,  like  the 
baby,  fast  asleep.  She  snatched  the  sleeping  child 
up,  then  began  screaming  and  beating  the  fox, 
until,  leaping  out  of  the  cot,  he  fled  from  that 
inhospitable  place,  only  to  encounter  the  whole 
yelling  pack  at  the  threshold,  where  he  was  quickly 
worried  to  death. 

The  editor  was  so  pleased  with  the  anecdote 
that  he  not  only  printed  it  but  encouraged  the 
little  rustic  to  write  other  things,  and  that  is  how 
his  career  as  a  writer  began. 

Now,  albeit  a  sentimentalist,  I  would  not  say 
that  the  fox  took  refuge  in  a  cradle  with  a  sleeping 
baby  and  pretended  to  be  asleep  just  to  work  on 
the  kindly,  maternal  feelings  of  the  cottage  woman 
and  so  save  his  life,  but  I  do  say,  and  am  pretty 
sure  that  not  one  of  the  Hunt  and  not  a  villager 
but  felt  that  the  kilHng  of  that  particular  fox  was 


58      THE  BOOK  OF  A  NATURALIST 

not  quite  the  right  thing  to  do,  or  not  altogether 
fair. 

This  incident  has  served  to  remind  me  of  another 
from  South  America,  told  to  me  by  an  Anglo- 
Argentine  friend  as  we  sat  and  talked  one  evening 
in  Buenos  Ayres,  comparing  notes  about  the  ways 
of  beasts  and  birds.  The  fox  of  that  distant  land 
is  not  red  like  his  English  cousin;  his  thick  coat  is 
composed  of  silver  white  and  jet  black  hairs  in 
about  equal  proportion,  resulting  in  an  iron  grey 
colour,  with  fulvous  tints  on  the  face,  legs  and 
under  parts.  If  not  as  pretty  as  our  red  fox,  he  is 
a  fine-looking  animal,  with  as  sharp  a  nose  and  as 
thick  a  brush,  and,  mentally,  does  not  differ  in  the 
least  from  him.  He  is  not  preserved  or  hunted  in 
that  country,  but  being  injurious  to  poultry,  is 
much  persecuted. 

My  friend  had  been  sheep  farming  on  the 
western  frontier,  and  one  winter  evening  when  he 
was  alone  in  his  ranch  he  was  sitting  by  the  fire 
whiling  away  the  long  hours  before  bed-time  by 
playing  on  his  flute.  Two  or  three  times  he  thought 
he  heard  a  sound  of  a  person  pressing  heavily 
against  the  door  from  the  outside,  but  being  very 
intent  on  his  music,  he  took  no  notice.  By  and  by 
there  was  a  distinct  creaking  of  the  wood,  and 
getting  up  and  putting  down  his  flute  he  took  up 
the  gun,  and,  stepping  to  the  door,  seized  the 
handle  and  pulled  it  open  very  suddenly,  when 
down  at  his  feet  on  the  floor  of  the  room  tumbled 
a  big  dog  fox.     He  had  been  standing  up  on  his 


A  SENTIMENTALIST  ON  FOXES      59 

hind  legs,  his  fore-feet  pressed  against  the  door 
and  his  ear  at  the  keyhole,  listening  to  the  dulcet 
sounds.  The  fox  rolled  on  the  floor,  frightened  and 
confused  by  the  light;  then,  picking  himself  up, 
dashed  out,  but  before  going  twenty  yards  he 
pulled  up  and  looked  back  just  when  the  gun  was 
at  my  friend's  shoulder.  There  had  been  no  time 
for  reflection,  and  in  a  moment  Reynard,  or 
Robert  as  we  sometimes  call  him,  was  on  the 
ground  bleeding  his  life  out. 

I  did  not  like  the  end  of  his  story,  and  I  fancied, 
too,  from  his  look  that  he  rather  hated  himself  for 
having  killed  that  particular  fox  and  regretted 
having  told  me  about  it. 

In  another  instance  which  remains  to  be  told, 
the  fox,  in  England  this  time,  who  had  got  into 
trouble,  and  was  in  dire  danger,  was  saved  not 
once,  but  twice,  just  because  there  was  time  for 
reflection.  It  was  told  to  me  at  Sidmouth  by  an 
old  fisherman  well  known  to  the  people  in  that 
town  as  "  Uncle  Sam,"  a  rank  sentimentalist,  like 
myself,  to  whom  birds  and  beasts  were  as  much 
as  human  beings.  It  chanced  that  in  1887  he  was 
occupied  in  collecting  materials  for  a  big  bonfire 
on  the  summit  of  Barrow  Hill,  a  high  hill  on  the 
coast  west  of  the  town,  in  preparation  for  Queen 
Victoria's  first  Jubilee,  when  one  day,  on  coming 
down  from  his  work,  he  met  a  band  of  excited  boys, 
all  armed  with  long,  stout  sticks,  which  they  had 
just  cut  in  the  adjacent  wood. 

Uncle    Sam    stopped   them    and    told    them   he 


60      THE  BOOK  OF  A  NATURALIST 

knew  very  well  what  they  were  after;  they  had 
got  their  sticks  to  beat  the  bushes  for  birds,  and 
he  was  determined  to  prevent  their  doing  such  a 
thing.  The  boys  all  cried  out,  denying  that  they 
had  any  such  intention,  and  told  him  they  had 
found  a  fox  caught  in  a  steel  trap  with  one  of  its 
forelegs  crushed,  and  as  it  would  perhaps  be  a  long 
time  before  the  keeper  would  come  round,  they 
were  going  to  kill  the  fox  with  their  sticks  to  put 
it  out  of  its  misery.  Uncle  Sam  said  it  would  be 
better  to  save  its  life,  and  asked  them  to  take  him 
to  the  spot.  This  they  did  wilhngly,  and  there, 
sure  enough,  was  a  big  fine  fox  held  by  one  leg, 
crushed  above  the  knee.  He  was  in  a  savage 
temper,  and  with  ears  laid  back  and  teeth  bared 
he  appeared  ready  to  fight  for  his  life  against  the 
crowd.  Uncle  Sam  made  them  place  themselves 
before  the  tortured  beast,  and  tease  him  with  their 
sticks,  pretending  to  aim  blows  at  his  head.  He 
in  the  meantime  succeeded  in  setting  the  end  of 
his  stick  on  the  shaft  of  the  gin,  and,  pressing  down, 
caused  the  teeth  to  relax  their  grip,  and  in  a  mo- 
ment the  fox  was  free,  and,  darting  away,  disap- 
peared from  their  sight  in  the  wood. 

A  year  or  so  later,  Uncle  Sam  heard  of  his 
rescued  fox,  a  three-legged  one,  the  crushed  limb 
having  fallen  or  been  gnawed  off.  He  had  been 
seen  near  that  spot  where  he  had  been  caught. 
This  was  close  to  the  highest  part  of  the  wall-like 
cliff,  and  he  had  a  refuge  somewhere  among  the 
rocks  in  the  face  of   it  some   forty  or  more   feet 


A  SENTIMENTALIST  ON  FOXES      61 

below  the  summit.  Those,  too,  who  walked  on  the 
sands  beneath  the  cliff  sometimes  saw  his  tracks — 
the  footprints  of  a  three-legged  fox.  Doubtless  he 
had  modified  his  way  of  life,  and  subsisted  partly 
on  small  crabs  and  anything  eatable  the  sea  cast 
up  on  the  beach,  and  for  the  rest  on  voles  and 
other  small  deer  obtainable  near  the  cHff.  At  all 
events  he  was  never  met  with  at  any  distance 
from  the  sea,  and  was  in  no  danger  from  the  Hunt, 
as  he  was  always  close  to  his  fortress  in  the  pre- 
cipitous cliff. 

One  day  a  farmer,  the  tenant  of  the  land  at 
that  S]^ot  who  was  out  with  his  gun  and  walking 
quickly  on  the  narrow  path  in  the  larch  wood 
close  to  the  cliff,  looking  out  for  rabbits,  came  face 
to  face  with  the  three-legged  fox.  He  stopped 
short,  and  so  did  the  fox,  and  the  gun  was  brought 
to  the  shoulder  and'  the  finger  to  the  trigger,  for  it 
is  a  fact  that  foxes  are  shot  in  England  by  farmers 
when  they  are  too  numerous,  and  in  any  case  here 
was  a  useless  animal  for  hunting  purposes,  since  he 
had  but  three  legs.  But  before  the  finger  touched 
the  trigger,  it  came  into  the  man's  mind  that  this 
animal  had  done  him  no  harm,  and  he  said,  "  Why 
should  I  kill  him?  No,  I'll  let  him  keep  his  life," 
and  so  the  fox  escaped  again. 

More  was  heard  from  time  to  time  about  the 
three-legged  fox,  and  that  went  on  until  quite 
recently — about  four  years  ago,  I  was  told.  If  we 
may  suppose  the  fox  to  have  been  two  or  three 
years    old   when   caught   in    a   trap,    and   that   he 


62      THE  BOOK  OF  A  NATURALIST 

finished  his  life  four  or  five  years  ago,  he  must 
have  hved  about  twenty-six  years.  That  would  be 
a  much  longer  period  than  the  domestic  dog  has, 
and  for  all  I  know  the  fox  may  be  living  still,  or, 
if  dead,  he  may  have  ended  his  life  accidentally. 


VI 

THE  DISCONTENTED  SQUIRREL 

Hurrying  along  the  street  the  other  day,  intent 
on  business,  I  was  brought  to  a  sudden  full  stop 
by  the  sight  of  a  heap  of  old  books  in  tattered 
covers  outside  a  second-hand  furniture  shop,  I 
didn't  want  old  books,  and  had  no  time  to  spare; 
the  action  was  purely  automatic,  like  that  of  the 
old  horse  ridden  or  driven  by  a  traveller  who  often 
refreshes  himself,  in  stopping  short  on  coming  to  a 
public-house  on  the  roadside.  On  the  top  of  the 
heap  was  a  small  pamphlet  or  booklet  in  blue 
covers,  entitled  The  Discontented  Squirrel,  and  this 
attracted  my  attention.  It  seemed  to  touch  a 
chord,  but  a  chord  of  what  I  did  not  know.  I 
picked  it  up,  and,  opening  it,  saw  on  the  first  page 
an  ancient  rude  woodcut  of  a  squirrel  eating  a  nut. 

The  old  picture  looked  familiar,  but  I  was  still 
at  a  loss  until  I  read  the  first  few  lines  of  the  letter- 
press, and  then  I  immediately  dropped  the  booklet 
and  hastened  on  faster  than  ever,  to  make  up  for  a 
wasted  minute. 

Why,  of  course,  the  Discontented  Squirrel,  that 
dear    little    ancient    beastie!      The    whole    of    the 


64     THE  BOOK  OF  A  NATURALIST 

child's  tale  came  back  with  a  rush  to  memory, 
for  I  had  read  and  re-read  it  when  my  age  was 
seven;  though  I  had  never  since  met  with  it  in 
the  hundreds  of  boxes  of  old  books  turned  over  in 
my  time,  or  in  any  collection  of  children's  books 
of  the  early  nineteenth  century.  I  once  made  a 
small  collection  of  such  literature  myself,  and 
others  have  collected  and  still  collect  it  in  a  large 
way.  I  sometimes  wonder  why  some  enterprising 
pubhsher  doesn't  start  an  Every  Child's  Libraiy, 
and  rescue  many  of  the  most  charming  of  these 
small  publications  from  total  oblivion.  Un- 
doubtedly he  would  find  the  best  period  was  from 
1800  to  about  1840.  < 

Once  upon  a  time — so  ran  the  story  as  I  remem- 
bered it,  and  retold  it  to  myself  while  walking  on — 
a  squirrel  lived  in  a  wood,  as  plump  and  playful 
and  happy  a  squirrel  as  one  would  wish  to  see.  He 
had  a  favourite  tree,  an  old  giant  oak,  which  was 
his  home,  and  when  summer  was  nearing  its  end 
he  began  to  amuse  himself  by  making  a  warm  nest 
in  a  cavity  down  at  the  roots;  also  by  hoarding  a 
quantity  of  hazel-nuts,  which  were  plentiful  just 
then  in  the  wood.  This  he  did,  not  because  he 
had  any  reason  for  doing  it,  or  thought  there  was 
any  use  in  it,  but  solely  because  it  was  an  old  time- 
honoured  custom  of  the  squirrel  tribe  to  do  these 
things. 

While  occupied  in  this  way  he  all  at  once 
became  aware  of  a  new  restlessness  and  excite- 
ment  among   the   birds,    and   when   he   asked   his 


THE  DISCONTENTED  SQUIRREL    65 

feathered  neighbours  what  it  was  all  about,  they 
were  surprised  at  his  innocence,  and  answered  that 
it  was  about  migration.  And  what  was  migration? 
A  funny  question  to  put  to  a  bird!  However, 
they  condescended  to  inform  their  ignorant  young 
friend  that  migration  meant  going  away  from  the 
country  in  order  to  escape  the  winter.  For  now 
winter  was  coming,  that  sad  season  of  leafless  trees 
and  of  short,  dark  days;  of  wet  and  wind  and 
bitter,  bitter  cold,  when  lakes  and  streams  would 
be  frozen  over,  and  the  earth  buried  in  white, 
awful  snow. 

And  where  would  they  go  to  escape  these  awful 
changes  ? 

They  would  go  to  a  land  where  there  was  no 
winter;  where  the  trees  were  green  all  the  year 
round,  with  flowers  always  blooming,  and  fruit  and 
nuts  always  ripening. 

"Oh  beautiful  land!  oh  happy  birds!"  thought 
the  squirrel.  "  But  where  is  that  desirable  coun- 
try? "  he  asked. 

"  Over  that  way,"  replied  the  birds,  pointing  to 
the  south,  just  as  if  it  were  a  place  quite  near. 
"  It  was,"  they  added,  "  beyond  the  ridge  of  blue 
hills  one  could  see  on  that  side." 

These  tidings  threw  the  squirrel  into  a  great 
state  of  excitement,  and  he  spent  his  whole  time 
running  after  and  questioning  every  bird  he  knew. 
"When,"  he  asked,  "would  the  migration  begin?" 

They  laughed  at  the  question,  and  said  it  had 
begun  some  time   ago,   and  was   going  on  at   the 


66      THE  BOOK  OF  A  NATURALIST 

present  moment.  The  swift  had  long  been  gone; 
so  had  the  night-jar;  the  cuckoo  too;  and  others 
were  beginning  to  follow. 

The  cuckoo — his  own  neighbour  and  familiar 
friend!  Ah,  that  was  why  he  hadn't  seen  him  for 
some  days  past!  And  then  began  an  unhappy 
time  for  the  squirrel,  and  every  day  and  every 
hour  increased  his  discontent.  The  yellowing  leaves, 
the  chillier  evenings,  and  long  nights  filled  him  with 
apprehension  of  the  coming  change,  and  at  last  he 
resolved  that  he  would  not  endure  it.  For  why 
should  he  stay  in  such  a  land  when  all  his  feathered 
neighbours  and  friends  were  now  hurrying  away  to 
a  better  one. 

Having  made  up  his  mind  to  migrate,  he  set  out 
at  dawn  of  day,  and  travelled  many  miles  toward 
those  blue  hills  in  the  south,  which  turned  out  to 
be  much  farther  than  he  had  thought.  It  was  not 
until  the  late  afternoon  that  he  arrived  at  the  foot 
of  the  ridge,  feeling  more  tired  and  sore-footed 
than  he  had  ever  been  in  his  life.  Nevertheless  he 
was  determined  not  to  give  in,  but  to  cross  the 
hills  before  dark,  and  in  crossing  them  perhaps 
view  from  the  summit  that  beautiful  land  to  which 
he  was  travelling.  And  so  up  and  ever  up  he 
went,  finding  it  more  fatiguing  every  minute,  until 
he  began  to  despair  of  ever  reaching  the  summit. 
And  he  never  did;  it  was  too  high,  and  he  was 
now  spent  with  hunger  and  weakness  after  his 
long  fatiguing  day.  Furthermore,  the  hillside  grew 
more  and  more  barren  and  desolate  as  he  got  higher. 


THE  DISCONTENTED  SQUIRREL    67 

until  he  found  himself  in  a  place  where  it  was  all 
stony,  without  trees  and  bushes  or  even  grass; 
and  there  was  no  food  to  be  found,  and  no  shelter 
from  the  cold,  violent  wind. 

He  could  go  no  farther,  and  the  summit  was 
still  far,  far  above  him.  Hunching  himself  up  on 
the  stony  ground,  with  his  nose  down  between  his 
paws  and  his  bushy  tail  spread  along  his  back,  he 
began  to  reflect  on  his  condition. 

Why  had  he  not  taken  into  account  that  he 
could  not  travel  like  a  bird  with  wings  to  bear  him 
through  the  air,  and  over  hills  and  rivers  and  long 
stretches  of  rough  country?  And  when  he  asked 
the  birds  how  long  it  would  take  them  to  reach 
that  happy  land  of  everlasting  sunshine  beyond  the 
blue  ridge,  had  they  not  answered  in  a  careless  way, 
as  if  they  thought  little  of  it,  "  Oh,  not  long;  two 
or  three  weeks,  according  to  one's  powers  "  ?  And 
it  never  occurred  to  him  that  a  bird  can  fly  farther 
in  half  an  hour  than  a  squirrel  can  travel  in  a  whole 
day!  Now,  when  it  was  too  late,  when  he  could 
not  go  forward,  and  his  home  was  too  far,  far 
behind  him,  he  remembered  and  considered  these 
things.  Oh  poor  squirrel!  Oh  miserable  end  of 
all  your  happy  dreams! 

And  while  he  was  sitting  hunched  up,  shivering 
with  cold  and  thinking  these  bitter,  desponding 
thoughts,  a  passing  kite  spied  him,  and  swooping 
down,  snatched  him  up  in  his  talons  and  carried 
him  off.  Little  strength  had  he  now  to  struggle, 
and  at  his  least  movement  the  sharp,  crooked  claws 


68      THE  BOOK  OF  A  NATURALIST 

tightened  their  grasp;  and  even  if  he  had  been 
able  to  free  himself,  it  would  only  have  been  to 
fall  that  vast  distance  through  the  void  air  and 
be  crushed  on  the  earth. 

Then  all  at  once  the  bird's  flight  grew  swifter 
and  rose  higher,  for  now  a  second  kite  had  appeared, 
and  had  given  chase  to  the  first  to  deprive  him  of 
his  prey. 

The  first,  burdened  with  the  squirrel,  could  not 
escape  from  his  persecutor,  and  they  were  soon  at 
close  quarters.  The  marauding  bird  now  began 
making  furious  swoops  at  the  other,  aiming  blows 
at  his  back  with  his  claws,  and  every  time  he 
swooped  down  he  uttered  savage  cries  and  mock- 
ings.  "Aha!"  he  cried,  "you  can't  save  yourself 
with  all  your  speed  and  all  your  doublings.  Drop 
that  squirrel  if  you  don't  want  your  back  cut  into 
strips.  Do  you  remember,  you  red  rascal,  that  you 
found  me  carrying  home  a  duckling  I  had  picked 
up  at  a  farm,  and  made  me  drop  it?  Do  you 
remember  what  you  said  on  that  occasion — that 
I  was  burdened  while  you  were  free,  so  that  you 
had  the  advantage  of  me,  and  would  claw  my 
back  to  ribbons  unless  I  dropped  the  duckling? 
Well,     robber — pirate!     who     has     the     advantage 


now 


It  was  awful,  that  battle  in  the  sky;  the  blows, 
the  shrieks,  the  dreadful  imprecations  they  hurled 
at  one  another;  but  in  the  end  the  kite  was  obliged 
to  drop  the  squirrel  to  defend  himself  with  his 
claws,   and   the   poor   little   beastie   fell   earthward 


THE  DISCONTENTED  SQUIRREL     69 

like  a  stone,  and  would  have  been  crushed  if  he 
had  fallen  upon  the  ground;  but,  luckily,  he  first 
struck  a  close  mass  of  twigs  and  foliage  on  the  top 
of  a  large  tree.  This  broke  the  violence  of  the  fall, 
and  he  came  down  gently  to  the  branches  beneath, 
when  he  managed  to  catch  hold  of  a  twig  and  come 
to  a  stop.  He  was  bruised  and  bleeding,  and  half- 
dead  with  the  shock;  but  by  and  by  he  revived, 
and  then  what  was  his  relief  and  joy  to  discover 
that  he  was  at  home — that  he  had  fallen  into 
his  own  favourite  old  oak-tree!  On  recovering  a 
little  strength  he  crept  down  the  trunk,  and  after 
satisfying  his  hunger  with  two  or  three  hazel-nuts 
from  his  store,  he  crawled  into  his  unfinished  nest, 
where  he  coiled  himself  up,  and  drawing  the  blankets 
over  his  ears,  mused  drowsily  on  his  unspeakable 
folly  in  having  forsaken  so  comfortable  a  home. 
And  as  to  migration — well,  "Never  again!"  he 
murmured  as  he  dropped  off  to  sleep. 

The  story  greatly  pleased  me  as  I  retold  it  to 
myself,  after  having  forgotten  it  for  so  many  long 
years,  since  I  now  perceived  that  it  was  a  fable  of 
the  right  sort;  that,  in  fact,  it  was  a  true  story — 
in  other  words,  true  to  the  creature's  character. 
Stories  about  reasoning  and  talking  animals  do 
not  always  conform  to  this  rule,  which  has  made 
the  terse  fables  of  ^sop  a  joy  for  ever.  Whether 
the  author  knew  it  or  not,  it  is  a  fact  that  the 
squirrel  is  subject  to  fits  of  discontent  with  his 
surroundings,  which  send  him  rushing  off  in  quest 
of  some  better  place  to  live  in;  and  at  such  times 


70      THE  BOOK  OF  A  NATURALIST 

he  will  make  his  way,  or  try  to,  over  wide  stretches 
of  barren,  unpromising  country.  Thus,  when  trees 
are  planted  in  a  treeless  district,  by  and  by 
squirrels  make  their  appearance,  even  when  their 
nearest  known  haunts  are  many  miles  distant.  Nor 
is  this  only  an  occasional  outbreak  of  a  gipsy  roving 
disposition  of  the  animal,  since  he  too  is  subject 
to  migratory  impulses  at  the  same  time  of  year 
as  the  birds.  In  some  countries  large  numbers  of 
squirrels  are  affected  simultaneously  in  this  way, 
and  have  been  observed  migrating,  many  perishing 
when  attempting  to  cross  rivers  too  wide  or  swift 
for   them. 

I  also  liked  the  story  because  it  recalled  a 
squirrel's  adventure  told  to  me  a  short  time  before 
by  an  old  fisherman  at  Wells-next-the-Sea,  in  Nor- 
folk. Wells  lies  at  the  edge  of  a  marsh  a  mile  and 
a  quarter  back  from  the  sea,  and  has  a  harbour,  a 
river  or  estuary  which  at  full  tide  is  deep  enough 
to  enable  small  vessels  to  come  up  to  the  town. 
Near  the  river's  mouth  there  is  a  row  of  tall  guiding 
poles  in  the  channel,  and  one  afternoon  my  in- 
formant noticed  a  squirrel  sitting  hunched  up  on 
the  summit  of  the  outermost  pole,  about  thirty 
feet  above  the  water.  Evidently  he  had  come 
through  the  pine  plantation  on  the  sand-dunes  on 
the  Holkham  or  north  side  of  the  river;  but, 
anxious  to  continue  his  travels  southward  along 
the  shore  and  over  the  vast  flat  saltings  towards 
Blakeney,  he  had  cast  himself  into  the  river  at  low 
tide,  and  finding  the  current  too  strong,  had  just 


THE  DISCONTENTED  SQUIRREL     71 

saved  himself  from  being  carried  out  to  sea  by- 
climbing  up  the  last  pole.  Now  the  current  was 
the  other  way,  and  the  river  full  from  bank  to 
bank:  the  poor  squirrel  on  his  pole-top  was  in  the 
middle  of  the  swirling  current,  and  dared  not 
venture  into  the  water  again,  either  to  go  forward 
or  back  to  the  wood. 

The  fisherman  went  home  to  his  tea;  but,  two 
hours  later,  just  about  sunset,  he  strolled  back  to 
the  sea-front,  and  there  still  sat  the  squirrel 
hunched  up  on  the  top  of  his  pole.  Presently  a 
fishing-boat  came  in  from  the  sea,  with  only 
one  person,  a  young  man,  in  it.  The  old  man 
hailed  him,  and  called  his  attention  to  the 
squirrel  on  the  pole.  "All  right;  I  see  him!" 
shouted  back  the  young  fellow.  "I'll  try  to  get 
him  off!" 

Then,  as  the  swirling  current  carried  the  boat 
up  to  within  about  three  yards  of  the  pole,  he  leant 
forward  and  thrust  out  an  oar  until  the  blade 
touched  the  pole;  and  no  sooner  had  it  touched 
than  down  like  lightning  came  the  squirrel  from 
his  perch,  leaped  upon  the  oar,  and  from  the  oar 
to  the  boat,  then  quickly  bounded  up  the  mast  and 
perched  himself  on  the  top. 

The  squirrel  had  not  understood  the  man's 
friendly  intentions,  and  his  lightning-quick  action 
appeared  not  to  have  been  prompted  either  by 
reason  or  instinct,  but  rather  by  that  intuitive 
faculty  one  is  half-inclined  to  believe  in,  which 
causes  an  animal  suddenly  threatened  with  destruc- 


72      THE  BOOK  OF  A  NATURALIST 

tion  to  take  instantly  the  one  line  by  which  it  may 
be  saved. 

The  boat  went  swiftly  on,  driven  by  the  rushing 
tide,  until  it  reached  the  quay  at  Wells,  and  no 
sooner  did  the  keel  touch  the  stones  at  the  landing- 
stage  than  down  the  squirrel  flew  from  the  mast- 
top,  and  rushing  to  the  bow,  took  a  flying  leap 
to  the  land,  then  dashed  off  toward  the  town  at 
topmost  speed.  A  number  of  children  playing  on 
the  quay  saw  him,  and  with  a  wild  cry  of  "  Squirrel! 
squirrel!  "  went  after  him.  Luckily  there  was  no 
dog  about;  and  the  squirrel  being  faster  than  the 
boys,  kept  well  ahead,  and,  dodging  this  way  and 
that  among  coal-trucks  and  wagons  and  horses, 
and  men  occupied  in  unloading,  got  through  them 
all,  then  crossing  the  lower  or  coast  road,  dashed 
into  one  of  the  wynds  or  narrow  streets  which  run 
u  )  to  the  higher  part  of  the  town.  There  more 
yelling  children  joined  the  hunt,  and  the  people  of 
the  wynd  ran  out  of  their  houses  to  find  out  what 
all  the  uproar  was  about. 

The  wynd  ends  at  the  upper  street,  and  facing  it 
is  a  long  brick  wall  ten  feet  high,  and  up  this  wall 
went  the  squirrel  without  a  pause  or  slip,  as 
swiftly  as  when  going  over  the  level  earth,  and 
disappeared  over  the  top  into  the  orchard  on  the 
other  side.  There  the  loud  advancing  wave  of 
young  barbarians  was  stayed  by  the  wall,  as  by  an 
ocean-facing  cliff. 

It  had  been  a  dashing  performance,  and  the 
squirrel  could  now  have  settled  safely  down  in  that 


THE  DISCONTENTED  SQUIRREL    73 

sheltered  spot  among  its  fruit  and  shade  trees, 
since  the  tenant,  who  lived  a  hermit  life  in  the 
house,  was  friendly  to  all  wild  creatures,  and 
allowed  neither  dogs  nor  cats  nor  fiends  in  shape 
of  boys  with  loud  halloo  and  brutal  noise  to  intrude 
into  his  sacred  grounds. 

But  this  would  not  have  suited  the  squirrel; 
the  town  noises  and  lights,  the  shrill  cries  of  children 
at  play  in  the  evening,  and  the  drum  and  fife  band 
of  the  Boy  Scouts  would  have  kept  him  in  a  con- 
stant state  of  apprehension.  Squirrels  are  nervy 
creatures.  No  doubt  when  the  town  was  asleep 
and  silent  that  night  he  scaled  the  back-wall  and 
crossed  other  orchards  and  gardens  until  he  came 
out  to  the  old  unkept  hedge  on  that  side,  and 
followed  it  all  the  way  to  Holkham  Park,  a  vast 
green  solitude  with  many  ancient  noble  trees,  in 
one  of  which  he  probably  first  saw  the  light. 

And  there,  at  home  once  more,  he  perhaps 
resolved,  like  the  Discontented  Squirrel  of  the 
fable,  never  again  to  attempt  to  better  himself  by 
migrating. 


VII 

MY  NEIGHBOUR'S  BIRD  STORIES 

We  sometimes  make  mistakes,  and  I  certainly- 
made  one  about  my  neighbour  over  the  way,  Mr. 
Redburn,  when  I  formed  the  conclusion  that  I 
had  no  use  for  him.  For  I  was  just  then  birding 
in  an  east-coast  village,  and  when  engaged  on  that 
business  I  look  for  some  interest  in  the  subject 
which  absorbs  me,  some  bird-lore  in  those  I  meet 
and  converse  with.  If  they  are  entirely  without  it, 
they  are  negligible  persons;  and  Mr.  Redburn,  a 
retired  bank  manager  and  a  widower,  living  alone 
in  a  house  opposite  my  lodgings,  fell  quite  naturally 
into  this  category.  A  kindly  man  with  friendly 
feelings  towards  a  stranger,  one  it  was  pleasant 
to  talk  with,  but  unfortunately  he  knew  nothing 
about  birds. 

One  day  we  met  a  mile  from  the  village,  he  out 
for  a  constitutional,  and  I  returning  from  a  prowl; 
and  as  he  seemed  inclined  to  have  a  talk,  we  sat 
down  on  a  green  bank  at  the  roadside  and  got  out 
our  pipes. 

"  You  are  always  after  birds,"  he  said,  "  and  I 
know  so  little  about  them !  "     Then  to  prove  how 

.74 


MY  NEIGHBOUR'S  BIRD  STORIES     75 

little  he  knew  of  their  ways  and  wants,  he  related 
the  history  of  a  thrush  he  once  kept  in  a  cage 
hanging  at  the  back  of  his  house,  where  there  was 
a  garden,  and  where  he  amused  himself  by 
cultivating  flowers  and  vegetables.  The  bird  had 
been  taken  from  the  nest  and  reared  by  hand; 
consequently  it  had  never  learnt  to  sing  a  true 
thrush  song,  but  had  invented  a  song  of  its  own, 
composed  of  imitations — cackling  fowls,  whistling 
boys,  and  various  other  village  noises,  including 
those  from  the  smithy.  The  village  postman,  who 
lived  close  by,  had  a  pecuhar  shrill  double  whistle 
which  he  always  emitted  when  nearing  his  house, 
to  bring  his  wife  to  the  door.  This  sound,  too,  the 
thrush  mimicked  so  cleverly  that  poor  Mrs.  Post- 
man was  always  running  to  the  door  for  nothing, 
and  at  length  had  to  beg  her  husband  to  invent 
some  other  sound  to  announce  his  approach. 

Seeing  that  the  bird  was  always  cheerful  and 
noisy,  it  was  a  puzzle  to  Mr.  Redburn  that  it  never 
looked  well.  It  was  supplied  with  clean  water  and 
good  food — bread  and  milk  and  crushed  rape-seed 
— every  day;  but  it  never  seemed  to  enjoy  its 
food,  and  its  plumage  had  a  dry,  loose,  disarranged 
appearance,  and  was  without  a  gloss.  It  was  a 
perfect  contrast  in  this  respect  to  a  wild  thrush 
that  used  to  visit  the  garden. 

One  day,  when  the  bird  had  been  in  his  possession 
for  a  little  over  a  year,  he  happened  to  be  sitting  in 
his  garden  smoking,  when  this  wild  thrush  came  on 
the  scene  and  began  running  about  the  lawn  looking 


76      THE  BOOK  OF  A  NATURALIST 

for  something  to  eat.  By  chance  he  noticed  that 
his  thrush  in  its  cage  was  watching  the  wild  bird 
intently.  Presently  the  bird  on  the  lawn  spied  a 
worm  which  had  incautiously  put  its  head  out  of 
its  hole,  and  dashed  at  and  seized  it,  then  began 
tugging  away  until  it  pulled  it  out,  after  which  it 
proceeded  to  kill  and  devour  it  with  a  good  appetite. 
The  caged  bird  had  watched  all  this  with  increasing 
excitement,  which  culminated  when  the  worm  was 
killed  and  swallowed. 

"Now  I  wonder  if  he  wants  a  worm  too?" 
said  Mr.  Redburn  to  himself,  and  getting  up  he 
took  a  spade  and  dug  up  two  big  worms,  which  he 
placed  in  the  cage  as  an  experiment;  and  no  sooner 
did  the  thrush  see  than  he  flew  at  and  killed  and 
devoured  them  as  if  mad  with  hunger.  Every  day 
after  that  he  dug  up  a  few  worms  for  his  thrush, 
and  the  sight  of  him  with  a  spade  in  his  hand 
would  always  start  the  bird  hopping  wildly  about 
his  cage. 

As  a  result  of  this  addition  to  his  diet  the  thrush 
in  due  time  took  on  a  brighter,  glossier  coat. 

Mr.  Redburn  had  congratulated  himself  on 
having  made  a  happy  discovery — happy  for  his 
thrush.  It  had  taken  him  a  year  of  twelve  months, 
but  he  had  never  made  the  more  important  dis- 
covery, which  it  appeared  to  me  he  had  come  so 
near  making,  that  the  one  and  only  way  to  give 
perfect  happiness  to  your  captive  thrush  is  to  open 
the  cage  and  let  him  fly  to  find  worms  for  himself, 
and  to  get  a  mate,  and  with  her  assistance  build  a 


MY  NEIGHBOUR'S  BIRD  STORIES     77 

deep  nest  in  a  holly  bush,  and  be  the  parent  of  five 
beautiful  gem-like  blue  eggs  spotted  with  black. 

The  only  other  bird  he  had  ever  possessed  was  a 
jackdaw,  a  charming  fellow,  full  of  fun,  with  uncut 
wings,  so  that  he  was  free  to  go  and  come  at  will; 
but  he  was  a  home-loving  bird,  very  affectionate, 
though  loving  mischief  too,  and  never  happier  than 
when  his  indulgent  master  allowed  him  to  use  his 
head  as  a  perch. 

One  day,  when  Mr.  Redburn  was  busy  in  his 
study,  his  little  daughter,  aged  seven,  came  crying 
to  him  to  complain  that  Jack  was  plaguing  her  so! 
He  wanted  to  pull  the  buttons  off  her  shoes,  and 
because  she  wouldn't  let  him  he  pecked  her  ankles, 
and  it  hurt  her  so,  and  made  her  cry.  He  gave  her 
his  stick,  and  told  her,  with  a  laugh,  to  give  Jack 
a  good  smart  rap  on  the  head  with  it,  and  that 
would  make  him  behave  himself.  He  never  for  a 
moment  imagined  that  such  a  clever,  quick  bird  as 
Jack  would  allow  himself  to  be  struck  by  a  little 
girl  with  a  long  walking-stick;  nevertheless  this 
incredible  thing  happened,  and  the  stick  actually 
came  down  on  Jack's  head,  and  the  child  screamed, 
and,  running  to  her,  he  found  her  crying,  and  Jack 
lying  to  all  appearance  dead  on  the  floor!  They 
took  him  up  tenderly  and  examined  him,  and  said 
he  was  really  and  truly  dead,  and  then  tenderly, 
sorrowfully,  put  him  down  again.  All  at  once,  to 
their  astonishment  and  dehght,  he  opened  his 
mischievous  little  grey  eyes  and  looked  at  his 
friends  standing  over  him.     Then  he  ^ot  up  on  his 


78      THE  BOOK  OF  A  NATURALIST 

legs  and  began  rocking  his  head  from  side  to  side, 
after  which  he  shook  his  feathers  two  or  three 
times;  then  tried  to  scratch  his  poll  with  his  claw, 
but  didn't  succeed.  He  was  in  a  queer  state,  and 
didn't  know  what  had  happened  to  him;  but  he 
soon  recovered,  and  was  just  as  fond  of  his  little 
playmate  as  ever,  although  he  never  again  at- 
tempted to  pull  her  buttons  off  or  peck  her  ankles. 
Some  time  after  this  Jack  disappeared  for  a 
day  or  two,  and  was  brought  back  by  a  boy  of  the 
village,  who  was  warmly  thanked  and  rewarded 
with  a  few  pence.  From  that  day  every  little  boy 
who  was  so  lucky  as  to  find  Jack  out  of  bounds, 
and  could  catch  him,  expected  a  gratuity  on  taking 
him  to  the  house;  and  as  the  little  boys  were  all 
very  poor  and  hungry  for  sweets,  they  were  per- 
petually on  the  look-out  for  Jack,  and  went  about 
with  something  in  their  ragged  little  pockets  to 
entice  him  into  their  cottages.  Every  day  Jack 
was  lost  and  found  again,  until  the  good  man,  who 
was  not  rich,  concluded  that  he  could  not  afford 
to  keep  so  expensive  a  pet;  and  so  Jack  was  given 
to  a  gentleman  who  had  a  pet  daw  of  his  own  and 
wanted  another.  In  his  new  home  he  had  nice 
large  grounds  with  big  trees,  and  Jack  with  a 
chum  of  his  own  tribe  was  very  happy  until  his 
end,  which  came  very  suddenly.  The  two  birds 
roosted  side  by  side  together  on  a  tall  tree  near 
the  house,  and  one  summer  night  this  tree  was 
struck  by  lightning;  next  morning  the  two  birds 
were  found  lying  dead  at  the  roots. 


MY  NEIGHBOUR'S  BIRD  STORIES     79 

My  neighbour  had  one  more  bird  story,  the  best 
of  all  to  tell,  and  this  about  rooks,  the  only  wild 
birds  he  had  ever  observed  with  the  object  of 
finding  out  something  about  their  habits.  There 
was  a  small  rookery  in  some  elm  trees  growing  at 
the  bottom  of  the  garden  of  the  house  he  then 
lived  in,  and  the  way  the  birds  went  on  during 
nest-building  time  moved  his  curiosity  to  such  a 
degree  that  one  Sunday  morning  he  resolved  to 
give  the  whole  day  to  a  careful  inquiry  into  the 
domestic  affairs  of  these  black  neighbours.  No 
doubt,  he  thought,  they  were  subject  to  a  law  or 
custom  which  enabled  them  to  exist  in  a  com- 
munity, living  and  rearing  their  young  in  nests 
placed  close  together.  Nevertheless  it  was  evident 
that  it  was  not  an  ideal  society,  and  that  the  noise 
was  not  due  merely  to  animal  spirits,  as  in  the 
case  of  a  lot  of  boys  out  of  school;  there  was  a 
great  deal  of  scolding  and  quarrelling,  and  from 
time  to  time  a  mighty  hubbub,  as  if  the  entire 
colony  had  suddenly  been  seized  with  an  angry 
excitement.  What  occasioned  these  outbursts?  It 
was  just  to  try  to  find  this  out  that  he  planted 
himself  in  a  chair  near  the  trees  on  that  Sunday 
morning.  The  nearest  tree  contained  one  nest  only, 
a  new  one  not  yet  finished,  and  eventually  he 
thought  it  best  to  concentrate  his  attention  on  this 
point,  and  watch  the  movements  of  the  one  pair 
of  birds.  He  liad  quickly  found  that  it  only  worried 
and  confused  him  to  keep  a  watch  on  the  move- 
ments and  actions  of  several  birds  and  their  nests. 


80      THE  BOOK  OF  A  NATURALIST 

The  two  birds  he  attended  to  went  and  came, 
sometunes  together,  then  first  one,  and  then  the 
other,  and  sometimes  one  would  remain  at  the 
nest  during  the  absence  of  its  mate.  This  v/ent 
on  for  about  three  hours,  and  nothing  unusual 
happened  at  the  nest;  at  other  points  of  the 
rookery  there  were  little  storms  of  noise  and 
some  shindies,  but  he  was  determined  not  to  let 
his  attention  wander  from  his  two  birds.  At 
length  he  was  rewarded  by  seeing  one  of  the  pair 
fly  to  an  unguarded  nest  about  thirty  yards  away, 
on  a  neighbouring  tree,  and  deliberately  pull  out 
a  stick,  which  it  brought  back  and  carefully 
adjusted  in  its  own  nest.  By  and  by  the  two 
birds  who  had  been  robbed  returned  together  and 
immediately  appeared  to  be  aware  that  something 
was  wrong  with  their  home.  Standing  on  the  nest, 
they  put  their  heads  together,  fluttering  their 
wings  and  cawing  excitedly,  and  presently  they 
were  joined  by  others,  and  others  still,  until  almost 
the  entire  colony  was  congregated  on  the  tree,  all 
making  a  great  noise.  After  two  or  three  minutes 
they  began  to  quarrel  among  themselves,  and  there 
were  angry  blows  with  beaks  and  wings,  after 
which  the  tumult  subsided,  and  the  company  broke 
up,  every  pair  going  back  to  its  own  nest.  After 
that  comparative  peace  and  quiet  continued  for 
some  time,  but  Mr.  Redburn  now  noticed  that  one 
bird  always  remained  on  guard  on  the  nest  where 
the  stick  had  been  stolen.  His  two  birds  quietly 
.continued  to  work  and  go  and  come,  and  by  and 


MY  NEIGHBOUR'S  BIRD  STORIES    81 

by,  about  two  hours  after  the  commotion,  they 
both  flew  away  to  the  fields  together,  and  no 
sooner  were  they  gone  than  the  bird  they  had 
robbed,  keeping  guard  on  his  tree,  flew  straight 
to  the  nest  they  had  left,  and  after  what  appeared 
like  a  careful  examination  took  hold  of  a  stick 
and  tugged  vigorously  until  he  succeeded  in  pulling 
it  out.  With  the  stick  in  his  beak  he  flew  back 
to  his  nest  and  proceeded  to  adjust  it  in  the 
fabric. 

What  would  happen  now,  Mr.  Redbui-n  asked, 
when  the  dishonest  couple  came  back  and  dis- 
covered that  they  had  been  deprived  of  their  loot? 
He  watched  for  their  return  with  keen  interest,  and 
by  and  by  they  came,  and,  to  his  astonishment, 
nothing  happened.  They  settled  on  their  nest, 
looked  it  over  in  the  usual  way  to  see  that  it  was 
as  they  had  left  it,  and  although  they  no  doubt 
saw  that  it  was  not  so  they  made  no  fuss. 

The  most  remarkable  thing  in  all  this  affair  was, 
to  Mr.  Redburn's  mind,  that  the  robbed  birds 
appeared  to  know  so  well  who  the  thief  was  and 
where  the  stick  could  be  looked  for. 

To  me  it  was  remarkable  that  my  neighbour, 
who  "  knew  nothing  about  birds,"  had  yet,  in  one 
day's  watching,  succeeded  in  seeing  something 
which  throws  a  stronger  light  on  the  law  of  the 
rookery  than  any  single  observation  contained  in 
the  ornithological  books. 

In  this  case,  as  he  relates  it,  the  robbed  birds 
appeared  to  know  very  well  who  the  culprits  were 


82       THE  BOOK  OF  A  NATURALIST 

among  their  neighbours.  Why,  then,  were  the 
robbers  not  attacked,  and  seeing  that  they  waited 
their  time  and  went  quietly  and  recovered  their 
own,  why  all  that  preliminary  fuss?  It  sometimes 
happens,  we  know,  that  the  entire  rookery  becomes 
infuriated  against  a  particular  pair;  that  in  such 
cases  they  fall  upon  and  demolish  the  nest,  and  in 
extreme  cases  expel  the  offenders  from  the  rookery. 
I  take  it  that  such  attacks  are  made  only  on  the  in- 
corrigible ones,  those  that  obtain  all  their  materials 
by  thieving,  and  so  make  themselves  a  nuisance  to 
the  community.  It  seems  probable  that  in  this 
instance  the  colony,  although  excited  at  the  news 
of  the  robbery  and  the  outcry  made  by  the 
victimised  pair,  declined  to  take  too  serious  a  view 
of  the  matter,  and  after  some  discussion  and 
quarrelling  left  the  angry  couple  to  manage  their 
own  affairs.  We  may  think,  too,  that  in  a  majority 
of  cases  an  occasional  offence  is  condoned  among 
birds  that  have  a  social  law  but  do  not  observe  it 
very  strictly.  Thus,  at  home,  the  rook  is  a  stealer 
of  sticks  when  the  occasion  offers,  and  a  wooer  of 
his  neighbour's  wife  when  his  neighbour  is  out  of 
the  way.  Too  severe  a  code  would  not  do;  it 
would,  in  fact,  upset  the  whole  community,  and 
rooks  would  have  to  go  and  live  like  carrion  crows, 
each  pair  by  itself.  At  all  events,  in  this  instance 
we  see  that  only  after  the  angry  outcry  made  by 
the  victims  had  failed  to  bring  about  an  attack 
they  quietly  waited  their  opportunity  to  recover 
their  property.     Then  the  meek  way  in  which  the 


^  MY  NEIGHBOUR'S  BIRD  STORIES     83 

robbers  took  it  appears  to  show  that  they  too 
understood  the  whole  business  very  well  indeed. 
They  were  in  a  dangerous  position,  and  were  quite 
ready  to  lose  what  they  had  taken  and  say  no 
more  about  it. 


VIII 

THE  TOAD  AS  TRAVELLER 

One  summer  day  I  sat  myself  down  on  the  rail  of 
a  small  wooden  foot-bridge — a  very  old  bridge  it 
looked,  bleached  to  a  pale  grey  colour  with  grey, 
green,  and  yellow  lichen  growing  on  it,  and  very 
creaky  with  age,  but  the  rail  was  still  strong  enough 
to  support  my  weight.  The  bridge  was  at  the  hedge- 
side,  and  the  stream  under  it  flowed  out  of  a  thick 
wood  over  the  road  and  into  a  marshy  meadow  on 
the  other  side,  overgrown  with  coarse  tussocky 
grass.  It  was  a  relief  to  be  in  that  open  sunny 
spot,  with  the  sight  of  water  and  green  grass  and 
blue  sky  before  me,  after  prowling  for  hours  in  the 
wood — a  remnant  of  the  old  Silchester  forest — 
worried  by  wood-flies  in  the  dense  undergrowth. 
These  same  wood-flies  and  some  screaming  jays 
were  all  the  wild  creatures  I  had  seen,  and  I 
would  now  perhaps  see  something  better  at  that 
spot. 

It  was  very  still,  and  for  some  time  I  saw 
nothing,  until  my  wandering  vision  lighted  on  a 
toad  travelling  towards  the  water.  He  was  right 
out  in  the  middle  of  the  road,  a  most  dangerous 


THE  TOAD  AS  TRAVELLER  85 

place  for  him,  and  also  difficult  to  travel  in,  seeing 
that  it  had  a  rough  surface  full  of  loosened  stones, 
and  was  very  dusty.  His  progress  was  very 
slow;  he  did  not  hop,  but  crawled  laboriously 
for  about  five  inches,  then  sat  up  and  rested 
four  or  five  minutes,  then  crawled  and  rested 
again.  When  I  first  caught  sight  of  him  he  was 
about  forty  yards  from  the  water,  and  looking 
at  him  through  my  binocular  when  he  sat  up 
and  rested  I  could  see  the  pulsing  movements 
of  his  throat  as  though  he  panted  with  fatigue, 
and  the  yellow  eyes  on  the  summit  of  his  head 
gazing  at  that  delicious  coolness  where  he  wished 
to  be.  If  toads  can  see  things  forty  yards  away 
the  stream  was  visible  to  him,  as  he  was  on 
that  part  of  the  road  which  sloped  down  to  the 
stream. 

Lucky  for  you,  old  toad,  thought  I,  that  it  is 
not  market  day  at  Basingstoke  or  somewhere  with 
farmers  and  small  general  dealers  flying  about  the 
country  in  their  traps,  or  you  would  be  flattened 
by  a  hoof  or  a  wheel  long  before  the  end  of  your 
pilgrimage.  i 

By  and  by  another  creature  appeared  and 
caused  me  to  forget  the  toad.  A  young  water- 
vole  came  up  stream,  swimming  briskly  from  the 
swampy  meadow  on  the  other  side  of  the  road. 
As  he  approached  I  tapped  the  wood  with  my 
stick  to  make  him  turn  back,  but  this  only  made 
him  swim  faster  towards  me,  and  determined  to 
have  my  own  way  I  jumped  down  and  tried  to 


86      THE  BOOK  OF  A  NATURALIST 

stop  him,  but  he  dived  past  the  stick  and  got 
away  where  he  wanted  to  be  in  the  wood,  and  I 
resumed  my  seat. 

There  was  the  toad,  when  I  looked  his  way,  just 
about  where  I  had  last  seen  him,  within  perhaps  a 
few  inches.  Then  a  turtle-dove  flew  down,  ahghting 
within  a  yard  of  the  water,  and  after  eyeing  me 
suspiciously  for  a  few  moments  advanced  and  took 
one  long  drink  and  flew  away.  A  few  minutes  later 
I  heard  a  faint  complaining  and  whining  sound  in 
or  close  to  the  hedge  on  my  left  hand,  and  turning 
my  eyes  in  that  direction  caught  sight  of  a  stoat, 
his  head  and  neck  visible,  peeping  at  me  out  of  the 
wood;  he  was  intending  to  cross  the  road,  and  seeing 
me  sitting  there  hesitated  to  do  so.  Still  having 
come  that  far  he  would  not  turn  back,  and  by  and 
by  he  drew  himself  snake-like  out  of  the  concealing 
herbage,  and  was  just  about  to  make  a  dash  across 
the  road  when  I  tapped  sharply  on  the  wood  with 
my  stick  and  he  fled  back  into  cover.  In  a  few 
seconds  he  appeared  again,  and  I  played  the  same 
trick  on  him  with  the  same  result;  this  was 
repeated  about  four  times,  after  which  he  plucked 
up  courage  enough  to  make  his  dash  and  was 
quickly  lost  in  the  coarse  grass  by  the  stream  on 
the  other  side. 

Then  a  curious  thing  happened:  flop,  flop,  flop, 
went  vole  following  vole,  escaping  madly  from  their 
hiding-places  along  the  bank  into  the  water,  all 
swimming  for  dear  life  to  the  other  side  of  the 
stream.     Their  deadly  enemy  did  not   swim  after 


THE  TOAD  AS  TRAVELLER  87 

them,  and  in  a  few  seconds  all  was  peace  and  quiet 
again. 

And  when  I  looked  at  the  road  once  more,  the 
toad  was  still  there,  still  travelling,  painfully 
crawling  a  few  inches,  then  sitting  up  and  gazing 
with  his  yellow  eyes  over  the  forty  ysuds  of  that 
weary  via  dolorosa  which  still  had  to  be  got  over 
before  he  could  bathe  and  make  himself  young  for 
ever  in  that  river  of  life.  Then  all  at  once  the 
feared  and  terrific  thing  came  upon  him:  a  farmer's 
trap,  drawn  by  a  fast  trotting  horse,  suddenly 
appeared  at  the  bend  of  the  road  and  came  flying 
down  the  slope.  That's  the  end  of  you,  old  toad, 
said  I,  as  the  horse  and  trap  came  over  him;  but 
when  I  had  seen  them  cross  the  ford  and  vanish 
from  sight  at  the  next  bend,  my  eyes  went  back, 
and  to  my  amazement  there  sat  my  toad,  his 
throat  still  pulsing,  his  prominent  eyes  still  gazing 
forward.  The  four  dread  hoofs  and  two  shining 
wheels  had  all  missed  him;  then  at  long  last  I 
took  pity  on  him,  although  vexed  at  having  to 
play  providence  to  a  toad,  and  getting  off  the  rail 
I  went  and  picked  him  up,  which  made  him  very 
angry.  But  when  I  put  him  in  the  water  he  ex- 
panded and  floated  for  a  few  moments  with  legs 
spread  out,  then  slowly  sank  his  body  and  remained 
with  just  the  top  of  his  head  and  the  open  eyes 
above  the  surface  for  a  little  while,  and  finally 
settled  down  into  the  cooler  depths  below. 

It  is  strange  to  think  that  when  water  would 
appear   to    be    so   much   to   these   water-born   and 


88      THE  BOOK  OF  A  NATURALIST 

amphibious  creatures  they  yet  seek  it  for  so  short 
a  period  in  each  year,  and  for  the  rest  of  the  time 
are  practically  without  it!  The  toad  comes  to  it 
in  the  love  season,  and  at  that  time  one  is  often 
astonished  at  the  number  of  toads  seen  gathered  in 
some  sohtary  pool,  where  perhaps  not  a  toad  has 
been  seen  for  months  past,  and  with  no  other  water 
for  miles  around.  The  fact  is,  the  solitary  pool  has 
drawn  to  itself  the  entire  toad  population  of  the 
surrounding  country,  which  may  comprise  an  area 
of  several  square  miles.  Each  toad  has  his  own 
home  or  hermitage  somewhere  in  that  area,  where 
he  spends  the  greater  portion  of  the  summer  season 
practically  without  water  excepting  in  wet  weather, 
hiding  by  day  in  moist  and  shady  places,  and 
issuing  forth  in  the  evening.  And  there  too  he 
hibernates  in  winter.  When  spring  returns  he  sets 
out  on  his  annual  pilgrimage  of  a  mile  or  two,  or 
even  a  greater  distance,  travelling  in  the  slow, 
deliberate  manner  of  the  one  described,  crawling 
and  resting  until  he  arrives  at  the  sacred  pool — 
his  Tipperary.  They  arrive  singly  and  are  in 
hundreds,  a  gathering  of  hermits  from  the  desert 
places,  drunk  with  excitement,  and  filling  the  place 
with  noise  and  commotion.  A  strange  sound,  when 
at  intervals  the  leader  or  precentor  or  bandmaster 
for  the  moment  blows  himself  out  into  a  wind 
instrument — a  fairy  bassoon,  let  us  say,  with  a 
tremble  to  it — and  no  sooner  does  he  begin  than 
a  hundred  more  join  in;  and  the  sound,  which  the 
scientific  books  describe   as   "  croaking,"  floats  far 


THE  TOAD  AS  TRAVELLER         89 

and  wide,  and  produces  a  beautiful,  mysterious 
effect  on  a  still  evening  when  the  last  heavy-footed 
labourer  has  trudged  home  to  his  tea,  leaving  the 
world  to  darkness  and  to  me. 

In  England  we  are  almost  as  rich  in  toads  as  in 
serpents,  since  there  are  two  species,  the  common 
toad,  universally  distributed,  and  the  rarer  natter- 
jack, abundant  only  in  the  south  of  Surrey.  The 
breeding  habits  are  the  same  in  both  species,  the 
concert-singing  included,  but  there  is  a  difference  in 
the  timbre  of  their  voices,  the  sound  produced  by 
the  natterjack  being  more  resonant  and  musical  to 
most  ears  than  that  of  the  common  toad. 

The  music  and  revels  over,  the  toads  vanish, 
each  one  taking  his  own  road,  long  and  hard  to 
travel,  to  his  own  solitary  home.  Their  homing 
instinct,  like  that  of  many  fishes  and  of  certain 
serpents  that  hibernate  in  numbers  together,  and 
of  migrating  birds,  is  practically  infallible.  They 
will  not  go  astray,  and  the  hungriest  raptorial 
beasts,  foxes,  stoats,  and  cats,  for  example,  decline 
to  poison  themselves  by  killing  and  devouring 
them. 

In  the  late  spring  or  early  summer  one  occasion- 
ally encounters  a  traveller  on  his  way  back  to  his 
hermitage.  I  met  one  a  mile  or  so  from  the  valley 
of  the  Wylie,  half-way  up  a  high  down,  with  his 
face  to  the  summit  of  Salisbury  Plain.  He  was 
on  the  bank  at  the  side  of  a  deep  narrow  path, 
and  was  resting  on  the  velvety  green  turf,  gay 
with    little    flowers    of    the    chalk-hills— eye-bright, 


90      THE  BOOK  OF  A  NATURALIST 

squinancy-wort,  daisies,   and  milkwort,   both   white 
and  blue. 

The  toad,  as  a  rule,  strikes  one  as  rather  an 
ugly  creature,  but  this  one  sitting  on  the  green 
turf,  with  those  variously  coloured  fairy  flowers  all 
about  him,  looked  almost  beautiful.  He  was  very 
dark,  almost  black,  and  with  his  shining  topaz  eyes 
had  something  of  the  appearance  of  a  yellow-eyed 
black  cat.  I  sat  down  by  his  side  and  picked  him 
up,  which  action  he  appeared  to  regard  as  an 
unwarrantable  liberty  on  my  part;  but  when  I 
placed  him  on  my  knee  and  began  stroking  his 
blackish  corrugated  back  with  my  finger-tips  his 
anger  vanished,  and  one  could  almost  imagine  his 
golden  eyes  and  wide  lipless  mouth  smiling  with 
satisfaction. 

A  good  many  flies  were  moving  about  at  that 
spot — a  pretty  fly  whose  name  I  do  not  know,  a 
little  bigger  than  a  house-fly,  all  a  shining  blue, 
with  head  and  large  eyes  a  bright  red.  These  flies 
kept  lighting  on  my  hand,  and  by  and  by  I 
cautiously  moved  a  hand  until  a  fly  on  it  was 
within  tongue-distance  of  the  toad,  whereupon  the 
red  tongue  flicked  out  like  lightning  and  the  fly 
vanished.  Again  the  process  was  repeated,  and 
altogether  I  put  over  half-a-dozen  flies  in  his  way, 
and  they  all  vanished  in  the  same  manner,  so 
quickly  that  the  action  eluded  my  sight.  One 
moment  and  a  blue  and  red-headed  fly  was  on  my 
hand  sucking  the  moisture  from  the  skin,  and  then, 
lo!   he  was  gone,   while   the   toad   still   sat   there 


THE  TOAD  AS  TRAVELLER         91 

motionless  on  my  knee  like  a  toad  carved  out  of  a 
piece  of  black  stone  with  two  yellow  gems  for 
eyes. 

After  helping  him  to  a  dinner,  I  took  him  off  my 
knee  with  a  little  trouble,  as  he  squatted  close 
down,  desiring  to  stay  where  he  was,  and  putting 
him  back  among  the  small  flowers  to  get  more  flies 
for  himself  if  he  could,  I  went  on  my  way. 

It  is  easy  to  establish  friendly  relations  with 
these  lowly  creatures,  amphibious  and  reptiles,  by 
a  few  gentle  strokes  with  the  finger-tips  on  the 
back.  Shortly  after  my  adventure  with  this  toad 
I  was  visiting  a  naturalist  friend,  who  told  me  of 
an  adventure  he  had  had  with  a  snake.  He  was 
out  walking  with  his  wife  near  his  home  among  the 
Mendips  when  they  spied  the  snake  basking  in  the 
sun  on  the  turf,  and  at  the  same  moment  the  snake 
saw  them  and  began  quietly  gliding  away.  But 
they  succeeded  in  overtaking  and  capturing  it, 
and,  although  it  was  a  large  snake  and  struggled 
violently  to  escape,  they  soon  quieted  it  down  by 
stroking  its  back  with  their  fingers.  They  kept 
and  played  with  it  for  half  an  hour,  then  put  it 
down,  whereupon  it  went  away,  but  quite  slowly, 
almost  as  if  reluctant  to  leave  them. 

So  far  this  was  a  common  experience;  I  have 
tamed  many  grass-snakes  in  the  same  way,  and  the 
only  smooth  snake  I  have  ever  captured  in  England 
was  made  tame  in  about  ten  minutes  by  holding 
it  on  my  knee  and  stroking  it.  In  the  instance 
related  by  my   friend,   it   would   appear   that  the 


92       THE  BOOK  OF  A  NATURALIST 

tameness  does  not  always  vanish  as  soon  as  the 
creature  finds  itself  free  again.  About  three  days 
after  the  incident  I  have  related  he  was  again 
walking  with  his  wife,  and  they  again  found  the 
snake  at  the  same  spot,  whereupon  he,  anxious  to 
captui-e  it  again,  made  a  dash  at  it,  but  the  snake 
on  this  occasion  made  no  attempt  to  escape,  and 
when  picked  up  did  not  struggle.  They  again  kept 
it  some  time,  caressing  it  with  their  fingers,  then 
releasing  it  as  before;  later  they  saw  their  snake 
on  several  occasions,  when  it  acted  in  the  same 
way,  allowing  itself  to  be  taken  up  and  kept  as 
long  as  it  was  wanted,  and  then,  when  released, 
going  very  slowly  away. 

That  one  first  delightful  experience  of  ha\'ing 
its  back  stroked  with  finger-tips  had  made  a  tame 
snake  of  it. 


IX 

THE  HERON:  A  FEATHERED  NOTABLE 

The  bird-watcher's  life  is  an  endless  succession  of 
surprises.  Almost  every  day  he  appears  fated  to 
witness  some  habit,  some  action,  which  he  had 
never  seen  or  heard  of  before,  and  will  perhaps 
never  see  again.  Who  but  Waterton  ever  beheld 
herons  hovering  like  gulls  over  the  water,  attracted 
by  the  fish  swimming  near  the  surface?  And  who, 
I  wonder,  except  myself  ever  saw  herons  bathing 
and  wallowing  after  the  manner  of  beasts,  not 
birds?  At  all  events  I  do  not  remember  any 
notice  of  such  a  habit  in  any  account  of  the  heron 
I  have  read;  and  I  have  read  many.  At  noon, 
one  hot  summer  day,  I  visited  Sowley  Pond,  which 
has  a  heronry  near  it  on  the  Hampshire  coast;  and 
peeping  through  the  trees  on  the  bank  I  spied 
five  herons  about  twenty  yards  from  the  margin 
bathing  in  a  curious  way  among  the  floating  poa 
grass,  where  the  water  was  about  two  feet  deep  or 
more.  All  were  quietly  resting  in  different  positions 
in  the  water — one  was  sitting  on  his  knees  with 
head  and  neck  and  shoulders  out  of  it,  another 
was  lying   on   one   side   with   one  half-open   wing 


94      THE  BOOK  OF  A  NATURALIST 

above  the  surface,  a  third  had  only  head  and  neck 
out,  the  whole  body  being  submerged;  and  it 
puzzled  me  to  think  how  he  could  keep  himself 
down  unless  it  was  by  grasping  the  roots  of  the 
grass  with  his  claws.  Occasionally  one  of  the 
bathers  would  shift  his  position,  coming  partly 
up  or  going  lower  down,  or  turning  over  on  the 
other  side;  but  there  was  no  flutter  or  bird-like 
excitement.  They  rested  long  in  one  position, 
and  moved  in  a  leisurely,  deliberate  manner, 
lying  and  luxuriating  in  the  tepid  water  like  pigs, 
buffaloes,  hippopotamuses,  and  other  water-loving 
mammalians.  I  watched  them  for  an  hour  or  so, 
and  when  I  left,  two  were  still  lying  down  in  the 
water.  The  other  three  had  finished  their  bath, 
and  were  standing  drying  their  plumage  in  the 
hot  sun. 

This  was  not  the  first  surprise  the  heron  had 
given  me,  but  the  first  was  received  far  from  this 
land  in  my  early  shooting  and  collecting  days,  and 
the  species  was  not  our  well-kno^vn  historical  bird, 
the  Ardea  cinerea  of  Britain  and  Europe  generally, 
and  Asia  and  Africa,  but  the  larger  Ardea  cocoi  of 
South  America,  a  bird  with  a  bigger  wing-spread, 
but  so  like  it  in  colour  and  action  that  any  person 
from  England  on  first  seeing  it  would  take  it  for 
a  very  large  specimen  of  his  familiar  home  bird. 

It  happened  that  I  was  making  a  collection  of 
the  birds  of  my  part  of  the  country  and  was  in 
want  of  a  specimen  of  our  common  heron.  A  few 
of  these  birds  haunted  the  river  near  my  home,  and 


A  FEATHERED  NOTABLE  95 

one  day  when  out  with  the  gun  I  caught  sight  of 
one  fishing  in  the  river.  It  was  deep  there,  and  the 
bird  was  standing  under  and  close  to  the  bank, 
where  the  water  came  up  to  his  feathered  thighs. 
Moving  back  from  the  bank  I  got  within  shooting 
distance  and  then  had  a  look  at  him  and  saw  that 
he  was  very  intently  watching  the  water,  with 
head  drawn  back  and  apparently  about  to  strike. 
And  just  as  I  pulled  the  trigger  he  struck,  and 
stricken  himself  at  the  same  moment  he  threw  him- 
self up  into  the  air  and  rose  to  a  height  of  about 
tliirty  feet,  then  fell  back  to  earth  close  to  the 
margin  and  began  beating  with  his  wings.  When  I 
came  up  he  was  at  his  last  gasp,  and  what  was  my 
astonishment  to  find  a  big  fish  impaled  by  his 
beak.  It  was  an  uneatable  fish,  of  a  peculiar  South 
American  family,  its  upper  part  cased  in  bony 
plates;  an  ugly  and  curious-looking  creature  called 
Vieja  ("old  woman")  by  the  natives.  It  was  a 
common  fish  in  our  stream  and  a  nuisance  when 
caught,  as  it  invariably  sucked  the  hook  into  its 
belly.  Now  I  had  often  found  dead  "  old  women  " 
lying  on  or  near  the  bank  with  a  hole  in  their  bony 
back  and  wondered  at  it.  I  had  concluded  that 
some  of  the  native  boys  in  our  neighbourhood  had 
taken  to  spearing  the  fish,  and  naturally  these  use- 
less ones  they  killed  were  thrown  away.  Now  I 
knew  that  they  were  killed  by  the  heron  with  a  blow 
of  his  powerful  beak ;  a  serious  mistake  on  the  bird's 
part,  but  an  inevitable  one  in  the  circumstances, 
since  even  the   shining,   piercing  eyes   of  a  heron 


06      THE  BOOK  OF  A  NATURALIST 

would  only  be  able  to  surmise  the  presence  of  a 
fish  a  few  inches  below  the  surface  in  the  muddy 
streams  of  the  pampas.  To  distinguish  the  species 
would  never  be  possible. 

In  this  case  the  iron-hard  dagger-like  beak 
had  been  driven  right  through  the  fish  from  the 
bone-plated  back  to  the  belly,  from  which  it 
projected  about  an  inch  and  a  half.  With  such 
power  had  the  blow  been  delivered  that  it  was  only 
by  exerting  a  good  deal  of  force  that  I  was  able  to 
wrench  the  beak  out.  My  conclusion  was  that  the 
bird  would  never  have  been  able  to  free  himself,  and 
that  by  shooting  him  I  had  only  saved  him  from  the 
torture  of  a  lingering  death  from  starvation.  The 
strange  thing  was  that  bird  and  fish  had  met  their 
end  simultaneously  in  that  way:  I  doubted  that 
such  a  thing  had  ever  happened  before  or  would 
ever  happen  again.  From  that  time  I  began  to  pay 
a  good  deal  of  attention  to  the  dead  "  old  women  " 
I  found  along  the  river-bank  with  a  hole  in  their 
back,  and  could  never  find  one  in  which  the  beak 
had  been  driven  right  through  the  body.  In  every 
case  the  beak  had  gone  in  about  half-way  through 
— just  far  enough  to  enable  the  bird  to  fly  to  the 
shore  with  its  inconvenient  captive  and  there  get 
rid  of  it. 


Death  by  accident  is  common  enough  in  wild 
life,  and  a  good  proportion  of  such  deaths  are  due 
to  an  error  of  judgement,  often  so  slight  as  not  to 


A  FEATHERED  NOTABLE  97 

seem  an  error  at  all.  For  example,  a  hawking 
swallow  may  capture  and  try  to  bolt  a  wasp  or 
other  dangerous  insect  without  first  killing  or 
crushing  it,  and  in  doing  so  receive  a  fatal  sting 
in  the  throat.  The  flight  of  hawking  swallows  and 
swifts  is  so  rapid  that  it  hardly  gives  them  time 
to  judge  of  the  precise  nature  of  the  insect  appear- 
ing before  them  which  a  second's  delay  would  lose. 
This  is  seen  in  swallows  and  swifts  so  frequently 
getting  hooked  by  dry-fly  anglers.  Birds  of  prey, 
too,  occasionally  meet  their  death  in  a  similar  way, 
as  when  a  kite  or  falcon  or  buzzard  or  eagle  lifts 
a  stoat  or  weasel,  and  the  lithe  little  creature 
succeeds  in  wriggling  up  and  fixing  its  teeth  in  the 
bird's  flesh.  If  they  fall  from  a  considerable 
height  both  are  killed.  Again,  birds  sometimes  get 
killed  by  attempting  to  swallow  too  big  a  morsel, 
and  I  think  this  is  oftenest  the  case  with  birds 
that  have  rather  weak  beaks  and  have  developed 
a  rapacious  habit.  I  remember  once  seeing  a  Guira 
cuckoo  with  head  hanging  and  wings  drooping, 
struggling  in  vain  to  swallow  a  mouse  stuck  fast 
in  its  gullet,  the  tail  still  hanging  from  its  beak. 
Undoubtedly  the  bird  perished,  as  I  failed  in  my 
attempts  to  capture  it  and  save  its  life  by  pulling 
the  mouse  out.  A  common  tyrant-bird  of  South 
America,  Pitangus,  preys  on  mice,  small  snakes, 
lizards  and  frogs,  as  well  as  on  large  insects,  but 
invariably  hammers  its  prey  on  a  branch  until  it 
is  bruised  to  a  pulp  and  broken  up.  It  will  work 
at  a  mouse  in  this  way  until  the  skin  is  so  bruised 


98      THE  BOOK  OF  A  NATURALIST 

that  it  can  be  torn  open  with  its  long,  weak  bill, 
but  it  never  attempts  to  bolt  it  whole  as  the 
cuckoo  does. 

One  day  when  sitting  on  the  bank  of  Beaulieu 
River  in  Hampshire  I  saw  a  cormorant  come  up 
with  a  good-sized  eel  it  had  captured  and  was 
holding  by  the  neck  close  to  the  head,  but  the 
long  body  of  the  eel  had  wound  itself  serpent-wise 
about  the  bird's  long  neck,  and  the  cormorant  was 
struggling  furiously  to  free  itself.  Unable  to  do 
so  it  dived,  thinking  perhaps  to  succeed  better 
under  water,  but  when  it  reappeared  on  the  sur- 
face the  folds  of  the  eel  appeared  to  have  tightened 
and  the  bird's  struggles  were  weaker.  Again  it 
dived,  and  then  again  three  or  four  times,  still 
keeping  its  hold  on  the  eel,  but  struggling  more 
feebly  each  time.  Finally  it  came  up  without 
the  eel  and  so  saved  itself,  since  if  it  had 
kept  its  hold  a  little  longer  it  would  have  been 
drowned. 

In  my  Land*s  End  book  I  have  given  an  account 
of  a  duel  between  a  seal  and  a  huge  conger-eel  it 
had  captured  by  the  middle  of  the  body,  the 
conger-eel  having  fastened  its  teeth  in  the  seal's 
head. 

An  odd  way  in  which  birds  occasionally  kill 
themselves  is  by  getting  a  foot  caught  in  long 
horse-hair  or  thread  used  in  building.  I  have 
seen  sparrows  and  house-martins  dead,  suspended 
from  the  nest  by  a  hair  or  thread  under  the  nest 
in  this  way. 


A  FEATHERED  NOTABLE  99 

When  I  killed  my  heron,  and  by  doing  so 
probably  saved  it  from  a  lingering  death  by  starva- 
tion, it  struck  me  as  an  odd  coincidence  that  it 
was  within  a  stone's  throw  of  the  spot  where  a 
few  weeks  before  I  had  saved  another  bird  from  a 
like  fate — not  in  this  instance  by  shooting  it.  The 
bird  was  the  painted  snipe,  Rhynchaea  semicollaris, 
a  prettily  coloured  and  mottled  species  with  a 
green  curved  beak,  and  I  found  it  on  the  low  grassy 
margin  of  the  stream  with  the  point  of  its  middle 
toe  caught  in  one  of  Nature's  traps  for  the  unwary 
— the  closed  shell  of  a  large  fresh- water  clam.  The 
stream  at  this  spot  was  almost  entirely  overgrown 
with  dense  beds  of  bulrushes,  and  the  clams  were 
here  so  abundant  that  the  bottom  of  the  stream 
was  covered  with  them.  The  snipe  wading  into 
the  water  a  foot  or  so  from  the  margin  had  set 
its  middle  toe  inside  a  partially  open  shell,  which 
had  instantly  closed  and  caught  it.  Only  by 
severing  the  point  off  could  the  bird  have  delivered 
itself,  but  its  soft  beak  was  useless  for  such  a 
purpose.  It  had  succeeded  in  dragging  the  clam 
out,  and  on  my  approach  it  first  tried  to  hide 
itself  by  crouching  in  the  grass,  and  then  struggled 
to  drag  itself  away.  It  was,  when  I  picked  it  up, 
a  mere  bundle  of  feathers  and  had  probably  been 
lying  thus  captive  for  three  or  four  days  in  constant 
danger  of  being  spied  by  a  passing  carrion-hawk 
and  killed  and  eaten.  But  when  I  released  the  toe 
it  managed  to  flutter  up  and  go  away  to  a  distance 
of  thirty  or  forty  yards  before   it  dropped  down 


100    THE  BOOK  OF  A  NATURALIST 

among  the  aquatic  grasses  and  sedges  on  a  marshy 
islet  in  the  stream. 


A  large  heronry  is  to  the  naturalist  one  of  the 
most  fascinating  spectacles  in  the  wild  bird  life  of 
this  country.  Heaven  be  thanked  that  all  our 
landowners  are  not  like  those  of  South  Devon, 
who  are  anxious  to  extirpate  the  heron  in  that 
district  in  the  interest  of  the  angler.  On  account 
of  their  action  one  is  inclined  to  look  on  the  whole 
fraternity  of  dry-fly  fishers  as  a  detestable  lot  of 
Philistines.  Some  years  ago  they  raised  a  howl 
about  the  swallows — their  worst  enemies,  that 
devoured  all  the  mayflies,  so  that  the  trout  were 
starved!  Well,  they  can  rejoice  now  to  know  that 
swalloAV  and  martin  return  to  England  in  ever- 
decreasing  numbers  each  summer,  and  they  must 
be  grateful  to  our  neighbours  across  the  Channel 
who  are  exterminating  these  noxious  birds  on 
migi-ation. 

I  have  known  and  know  many  heronries  all 
over  England,  and  I  think  the  one  I  liked  to  visit 
best  of  all  was  in  a  small  wood  in  a  flat  green 
country  in  the  Norfolk  Broads  district.  It  was 
large,  containing  about  seventy  inhabited  nests — 
huge  nests,  many  of  them,  and  near  together,  so 
that  it  looked  like  a  rookery  made  by  giant  rooks. 
And  it  has  had  a  troubled  history,  like  that  of  an 
old  Norfolk  town  in  the  far  past  when  Saxons  and 
Danes  were  at  variance.  For  this  heronry  had  been 
established  alongside  of  an  old  populous  rookery. 


A  FEATHERED  NOTABLE  101 

and  the  rooks  hated  the  herons  and  mobbed  them 
and  demolished  their  nests,  and  persecuted  them 
in  every  rookish  way;  but  they  refused  to  quit, 
and  at  length  the  rooks,  unable  to  tolerate  them, 
shifted  their  rookery  a  little  farther  away,  and  there 
was  an  uncomfortable  sort  of  truce  between  the  big 
black  hostile  birds  and  their  grey  ghostly  neigh- 
bours with  very  long,  sharp,  and  veiy  unghostly 
beaks. 

On  the  occasion  of  my  last  visit  this  heronry 
was  in  the  most  interesting  stage,  when  the  young 
birds  were  fully  grown  and  were  to  be  seen  standing 
up  on  their  big  nests  or  on  the  topmost  branches  of 
the  trees  waiting  to  be  fed.  At  some  spots  in  the 
wood  where  the  trees  stand  well  apart  I  could 
count  as  many  as  forty  to  fifty  young  birds  standing 
in  this  way,  in  famihes  of  two,  three,  and  four.  It 
was  a  fine  sight,  and  the  noise  they  made  at  inter- 
vals was  a  fine  thing  to  hear.  The  heron  is  a  bird 
with  a  big  voice.  When  nest-building  is  going  on, 
and  in  fact  until  most  of  the  eggs  are  laid,  herons 
are  noisy  birds,  and  the  sounds  they  emit  are  most 
curious — the  loud  familiar  squalk  or  "  frank," 
which  resembles  the  hard,  powerful  alarm-note  of 
the  peacock,  but  is  more  harsh,  while  other  grinding 
metallic  cries  remind  one  of  the  carrion-crow. 
Other  of  their  loud  sounds  are  distinctly  mammalian 
in  character;  there  is  a  dog-like  sound,  partly  bark 
and  partly  yelp,  swine-hke  grunting,  and  other 
sounds  which  recall  the  peculiar,  unhappy,  desolate 
cries  of  the  large  felines,  especially  of  the  puma. 


102    THE  BOOK  OF  A  NATURALIST 

One  need  not  take  it  for  granted  that  these  strange 
vocal  noises  are  nothing  but  love  calls.  They  may 
be  in  part  expressions  of  anger,  since  it  is  hardly 
to  be  beheved  that  the  members  of  these  rude  com- 
munities invariably  respect  one  another's  rights. 
We  see  how  it  is  with  the  rook,  which  has  a  more 
developed  social  instinct  than  the  lonely  savage 
heron. 

During  incubation  quiet  reigns  in  the  heronry; 
when  the  young  >are  out,  especially  when  they  are 
well  grown  and  ravenously  hungry  all  day  long, 
the  wood  is  again  filled  with  the  uproar;  and  a 
noisier  heronry  than  the  one  I  am  describing  could 
not  have  been  found.  For  one  thing,  it  was  situated 
on  the  very  edge  of  the  wood,  overlooking  the  green 
flat  expanse  towards  Breydon  Water,  where  the 
parent  birds  did  most  of  their  fishing,  so  that  the 
returning  birds  were  visible  from  the  tree-tops  at 
a  great  distance,  travelling  slowly  with  eel  and 
frog  and  fish-laden  gullets  on  their  wide-spread 
blue  wings — dark  blue  against  the  high  shining 
blue  of  the  sky.  All  the  young  birds,  stretched  up 
to  their  full  height,  would  watch  its  approach,  and 
each  and  every  one  of  them  would  regard  the 
returning  bird  as  its  own  too-long  absent  parent 
with  food  to  appease  its  own  furious  hunger;  and 
as  it  came  sweeping  over  the  colony  there  would 
be  a  tremendous  storm  of  wild  expectant  cries — 
strange  cat-  and  dog-like  growling,  barking,  yelping, 
whining,  screaming;  and  this  would  last  until  the 
newcomer  would  drop  upon  its  own  tree  and  nest 


A  FEATHERED  NOTABLE  103 

and  feed  its  own  young,  whereupon  the  tempest 
would  slowly  subside,  only  to  be  renewed  on  the 
appearance  of  the  next  great  blue  bird  coming 
down  over  the  wood. 

One  of  the  most  delightful,  the  most  exhilarating 
spectacles  of  wild  bird  life  is  that  of  the  soaring 
heron.  The  great  blue  bird,  with  great  round 
wings  so  measured  in  their  beats,  yet  so  buoyant 
in  the  vast  void  air!  It  is  indeed  a  sight  which 
moves  all  men  to  admiration  in  all  countries  which 
the  great  bird  inhabits;  and  I  remember  one  of 
the  finest  passages  in  old  Spanish  poetiy  describes 
the  heron  rejoicing  in  its  placid  flight.  "  Have  you 
seen  it,  beautiful  in  the  heavens!"  the  poet 
exclaims  in  untranslatable  lines,  in  which  the 
harmonious  words,  delicado  y  sonoroso,  and  the 
peculiar  rhythm  are  made  to  mimic  the  slow 
pulsation  of  the  large  wings.  Who  has  not  seen 
it  and  experienced  something  of  the  feeling  which 
stirred  the  old  writer  centuries  ago: 

Has  visto  hermosa  en  el  cielo 
La  garza  sonrearse  con  placido  vuelo.? 
Has  visto,  torciendo  de  la  mano, 
Sacra  que  la  deribe  por  el  suelo? 

The  most  perfect  example  I  know  of  in  literature 
in  which  the  sound  is  an  echo  to  the  sense.  How 
artificial  and  paltry  that  ornament  often  seems  to 
us  in  our  poets,  even  in  much-admired  passages, 
such  as  Goldsmith's  white  -  washed  walls  and 
nicely-sanded   floor,   and   the   varnished   clock   that 


104    THE  BOOK  OF  A  NATURALIST 

clicked  behind  the  door.  The  beauty  of  the  passage 
quoted — the  heavenward  sublime  flight  of  the 
heron  and  the  furious  zigzag  pui'suit  of  the  falcon, 
who  will  presently  overtake  and  hurl  it  back  to 
earth — is  in  its  perfect  naturalness,  its  spontaneity, 
as  if  some  one  in  delight  at  the  spectacle  had 
exclaimed  the  words. 

This  is  one  of  the  sights  in  bird  life  which  makes 
me  envy  the  sportsmen  of  the  old  time  when 
falconry  was  followed  and  the  peregrine  was 
flown,  not  at  skulking  magpies,  as  the  way  is  with 
our  Hawking  Club,  but  at  noble  heron.  They  saw 
the  great  bird  at  its  best,  when  it  mounts  with 
powerful  wing-beats  almost  vertically  to  a  vast 
height  in  the  sky.  The  heron,  in  these  days,  wlie^ 
all  the  hawks  have  been  extirpated  by  our  Philistine 
pheasant-breeders  who  own  the  country,  has  no 
need  to  exercise  that  instinct  and  faculty. 

The  question  has  sometimes  com.e  into  my 
mind,  Why  does  the  heron  at  all  times,  when, 
seen  on  the  wing,  it  strikes  us  as  beautiful,  and 
when  only  strange  or  quaint-looking,  or  actually 
ugly,  produce  in  some  of  us  a  feeling  akin  to  melan- 
choly? We  speak  of  it  as  a  grey,  a  ghost-like  bird; 
and  grey  it  certainly  is,  a  haunter  of  lonely  waters 
at  the  dim  twilight  hour;  mysterious  in  its  comings 
and  goings.  Ghostly,  too,  it  is  in  another  sense, 
and  here  we  may  see  that  the  feeling,  the  sense  of 
melancholy,  is  due  to  association,  to  the  fact  that 
the  heron  is  a  historical  bird,  part  of  the  country's 


A  FEATHERED  NOTABLE  105 

past,  when  it  was  more  to  the  country  gentleman 
than  the  semi-domestic  pheasant  and  the  par- 
tridge on  the  arable  land  and  the  blackcock  and 
red-grouse  on  the  moors  all  together  to  the  man  of 
to-day.  The  memory  of  that  vanished  time,  the 
thought  that  the  ruder  life  of  the  past,  when  men 
lived  nearer  to  Nature,  had  a  keener  flavour,  is 
accompanied  with  a  haunting  regret.  It  is  true 
that  the  regret  is  for  something  we  have  not  known, 
that  we  have  only  heard  or  read  of  it,  but  it  has 
become  mixed  in  our  mind  with  our  very  own 
experienced  past — our  glad  beautiful  "  days  that 
are  no  more."  And  when  we  remember  that  in 
those  distant  days  the  heron  was  a  table-bird,  we 
may  well  believe  that  men  were  healthier  and  had 
better  appetites  than  now — that  they  were  all  and 
always  young. 


THE  HERON  AS  A  TABLE  -  BIRD 

In  reading  the  Hampshire  children's  Bird  and  Tree 
Essays  for  1916  I  came  upon  one  by  a  httle  boy 
which  ends  as  follows:  "One  of  our  schoolboys 
had  a  heron  given  him,  so  his  mother  cooked  it 
and  when   it  was   done   it   was   tough   and  had   a 

NASTY    TASTE." 

Mine  are  the  capitals,  but  the  concluding  words 
seemed  crying  for  them;  they  also  served  to 
remind  me  of  a  story  about  eating  heron  told  me 
by  the  only  person  I  had  ever  met  who  had  some 
first-hand  knowledge  about  the  heron  as  a  table- 
bird.  It  is  a  rather  long  story;  perhaps  a  painful 
one  to  persons  of  a  squeamish  stomach,  but  as  it 
is  pure  natural  history  I  must  be  allowed  to  tell  it. 

I  was  staying  at  Bath,  and  wishing  to  get  some 
work  copied  I  set  out  with  the  name  and  address 
of  a  lady  typist,  furnished  by  a  bookseller  of  the 
town,  to  look  for  her  in  the  Camden  Road.  A  long 
road  it  proved.  Like  Pope's  wounded  serpent  it 
dragged  its  slow  length  along  to  the  distant  horizon 
and  beyond  it.  It  also  reminded  me  of  Upper 
Wigmore  Street,  as  it  seemed  to  poor  dying  Sydney 

106 


THE  HERON  AS  A  TABLE  -  BIRD  107 

Smith,  except  that  Camden  Road  was  about  a 
thousand  times  longer.  At  length,  a  mile  or  so 
short  of  the  far  end,  I  came  to  the  number  I  was 
looking  for  on  the  door  of  a  small,  pretty,  old- 
looking  vine-clad  cottage  set  well  back  from  the 
road  with  trees  and  flowers  about  it,  and  there  I 
found  my  typist  and  her  sister — two  little  un- 
married ladies,  no  longer  young,  who  in  their  gentle 
subdued  manner,  low  soft  speech,  and  quiet  move- 
ments appeared  to  harmonise  very  well  with  the 
old-world  little  house  they  lived  in.  They  were,  I 
fancy,  somewhat  startled  at  the  apparition  of  so 
big  a  man  in  their  small  interior — one  whose  head 
came  within  an  inch  or  two  of  the  low  ceiling: 
they  seemed  timid  and  troubled  and  anxious  in 
their  minds  when  I  gave  them  my  scrawl  to 
decipher  and  copy. 

One  day,  wanting  a  good  long  walk,  I  paid 
them  a  second  visit,  to  find  them  less  shy  and 
reticent  than  at  first;  and  afterwards  I  went  again 
on  several  occasions,  until  we  became  quite  friendly, 
and  they  gratified  my  De  Quincey-like  craving  to 
know  everj^thing  about  the  life  of  every  person  I 
meet  from  its  birth  onwards,  by  telhng  me  all  about 
themselves. 

They  had  been  left  with  very  little  to  live  on, 
and  one  was  an  invalid;  yet  they  had  to  do  some- 
thing, and  typewriting  at  home  was  the  only 
thing,  as  this  enabled  them  to  keep  together,  so 
that  the  invalid  would  always  have  her  sister  with 
her.     The  work  they  had  done  hitherto,  they  said, 


108    THE  BOOK  OF  A  NATURALIST 

was  copying  tradesmen's  circulars,  also  some 
copying  for  two  of  the  local  clergy  and  for  an 
attorney  of  the  town.  My  work  had  come  as  a 
relief  to  them.  The  very  first  thing  I  had  given 
them  was  a  paper  about  the  sheldrake.  What  a 
strange  subject — they  could  hardly  believe  their 
eyes  when  they  saw  it.  The  sheldrake! — that  bird 
about  which  they  had  so  many  memories,  pleasant, 
and  some  not  quite  pleasant.  It  was  all  very 
wonderful.  Before  they  came  to  Bath  they  lived 
with  a  bachelor  brother  who  had  come  into  a  small 
farm,  left  him  by  a  distant  relation,  on  the  Welsh 
coast.  As  he  had  nothing  else  in  the  world  he 
went  to  live  on  it  and  work  it  himself,  and  kindly 
took  them  to  keep  house  and  do  the  indoor  work. 
The  farm  was  on  a  very  wild,  lonely  spot,  close  to 
the  sea,  and  abounded  in  birds  of  many  kinds — 
sea  and  shore  and  land — they  had  never  seen 
before.  And  though  it  was  a  rough  place  they 
loved  it  because  of  the  sea  and  woods  and  hills 
and  the  birds,  and  they  wished  they  had  never  had 
anything  to  do  with  the  birds  except  just  to  see 
and  admire  them.  But  there  was  their  brother, 
who  was  a  great  sportsman  and  who  had  some 
very  strange  ideas.  One  was  that  most  birds  were 
good  to  eat,  and  he  was  always  shooting  some 
queer-looking  bird  and  bringing  it  in  to  them  to 
dress  and  cook  it  for  dinner.  And  the  sheldrake 
was  one  he  often  shot.  He  said  it  was  a  sort  of 
duck,  and  therefore  just  as  good  to  eat  as  a  mallard, 
or  widgeon,  or  teal,  and  that  it  was  nothing  but  a 


THE  HERON  AS  A  TABLE  -  BIRD  109 

silly  prejudice  which  prevented  people  from  eating 
them.  And  though  they  never  had  one  on  the 
table  that  wasn't  tough  and  dry  and  fishy  -  tasted 
he  would  still  bring  them  in  and  argue  that  they 
were  very  good.  "  We  loved,"  they  said,  "  to  see 
the  sheldrakes  flying  about  on  the  coast,  but  how 
we  hated  to  see  them  brought  in  to  be  cooked  for 
dinner!  But  he  was  always  very  masterful  with 
us  and  we  never  dared  to  go  against  his  wishes." 

One  day  he  brought  in  a  heron,  and  they  were 
quite  startled  at  the  sight  of  such  a  huge,  lank, 
grey,  loose-feathered  creature  with  such  immense 
legs  and  such  a  dreadful  beak.  But  when  he  said 
it  would  be  a  grand  experience  for  them  to  eat 
heron  they  thought  he  must  be  joking,  although 
it  was  not  a  common  thing  for  him  to  say  anything 
in  fun.  He  was  a  very  serious  sort  of  man.  Finally 
they  ventured  to  ask  him  if  he  really  meant  that 
this  upsetting  bird  was  to  be  eaten?  He  was 
quite  indignant:  of  course  it  was  to  be  eaten,  he 
said;  did  they  imagine  that  he  killed  birds  just 
for  the  pleasure  of  killing  them!  He  said  it  would 
be  a  grand  day  for  them  when  they  sat  down  to  a 
heron  on  the  table.  Didn't  they  know  that  it 
was  one  of  the  most  famous  birds  of  the  old  time 
— that  the  heron  was  regarded  as  a  noble,  a  royal 
bird,  that  it  was  a  great  dish  at  the  feast  in 
baronial  halls;  and  that's  how  he  went  on  until 
they  were  quite  ashamed  of  their  ignorance  of  the 
old  days  and  humbly  promised  to  cook  the  bird. 
Very  well,  he  said,  he  was  going  to  hang  it  in  the 


110    THE  BOOK  OF  A  NATURALIST 

big  empty  room  next  the  dairy  and  let  it  remain 
until  fit  to  cook.  The  longer  it  hung  the  more 
tender  it  would  be. 

There  was  an  iron  hook  in  the  central  beam  of 
the  big  vacant  room  he  had  spoken  of,  and  on  this 
hook  he  suspended  the  heron  by  its  legs,  its  long 
pointed  beak  nearly  touching  the  tiled  floor,  and 
hanging  there  with  nothing  else  in  the  room  it 
looked  bigger  than  ever.  It  troubled  them  greatly 
to  have  to  go  through  this  room  many  times  a 
day,  but  it  was  far  worse  at  night.  They  were 
accustomed,  especially  on  moonlight  nights,  to  go 
that  way  to  the  dairy  without  a  candle;  and  they 
sometimes  forgot  about  the  bird,  and  then  the 
sight  of  it  in  its  pale  grey  plumage  would  startle 
them  as  if  they  had  seen  a  ghost.  How  awful  it 
looked,  with  its  wings  like  great  arms  half  -  open 
as  if  to  scare  them! 

Days  and  weeks  went  by,  and  still  the  heron 
was  suspended  in  the  big  vacant  room  to  make 
their  life  on  the  farm  a  burden  to  them,  then  one 
morning  after  finishing  his  breakfast  their  brother 
said  that  he  had  been  looking  at  the  heron  and 
found  it  was  just  about  in  perfect  condition  to  be 
cooked,  and  that  they  would  have  it  for  dinner 
that  day.  Then  he  added :  "  I  don't  mean  at 
our  twelve  o'clock  dinner.  There  would  be  no 
time  to  prepare  it  and  it  would  not  be  proper  to 
eat  it  at  such  an  hour.  To-day  we  must  have  a 
real  eight  o'clock  dinner  so  as  to  do  honour  to  the 
heron." 


THE  HERON  AS  A  TABLE -BIRD  111 

Then  he  went  out  and  left  them  staring  into 
each  other's  pale  face.  However,  the  painful  task 
had  to  be  performed,  and  they  loyally  went  to 
work  and  plucked  it,  but  in  cleaning  it  received  a 
shock  at  finding  a  trout  about  a  foot  in  length  in 
a  semi-decomposed  condition  in  its  gullet.  After 
refreshing  themselves  with  sal  -  volatile  and  half 
an  hour  in  the  garden,  they  finished  the  hateful 
business  by  singeing  it  and  pumping  many  gallons 
of  water  over  its  carcase,  and  then  towards  evening 
put  it  in  the  oven  to  roast  or  bake.  The  smell  of 
it  was  very  trying  and  not  only  made  the  kitchen 
atmosphere  almost  not  to  be  borne  but  pervaded 
the  whole  house,  causing  them  to  look  forward 
more  and  more  apprehensively  to  the  evening 
dinner.  Still,  they  were  determined  to  do  every- 
thing to  please  their  brother,  and  got  out  their 
best  table-cloth  and  silver,  flowers  for  decoration, 
and  wine  and  coloured  glasses;  and  the  brother 
when  he  sat  down  smiled  on  them  approvingly. 
Then  the  heron  on  a  big  dish  was  brought  in,  and 
the  brother  rose  to  carve  it,  and  heaped  their 
plates  with  generous  slices  of  the  lean  black  flesh, 
and  helped  himself  even  more  generously.  They 
having  been  helped  first  had  to  begin,  but  to  put 
even  the  smallest  morsel  into  their  mouths  was 
more  than  they  could  do.  They  pretended  to  cut 
and  eat  it  while  confining  themselves  to  the 
vegetables  on  their  plates.  Their  brother  was  not 
affected  with  such  squeamishness  and  straightway 
started   operations,   and   did  honour  to   the   heron 


112    THE  BOOK  OF  A  NATURALIST 

by  taking  a  tremendous  mouthful.  The  sisters 
exchanged  frightened  glances  and  watched  him 
furtively,  wondering  at  his  courage — wondering, 
too,  if  he  would  be  able  to  keep  it  up  and  consume 
the  whole  monstrous  plateful.  Then  something 
happened:  a  change  came  over  his  face,  he  turned 
pale,  and  stopped  chewing;  then,  with  mouth  still 
full,  he  suddenly  rose  and  fled  from  the  room. 

That  was  the  end  of  their  gorgeous  dinner! 
Feeling  pretty  sure  that  he  would  not  call  for  the 
cold  remains  of  the  bird  next  morning  for  breakfast 
they  took  it  out  and  buried  it  in  the  garden,  then 
threw  all  the  doors  and  windows  in  the  house  open 
to  get  rid  of  the  savour.  It  was  late  that  evening 
when  they  next  saw  their  brother;  he  was  looking 
pale  as  if  but  lately  recovering  from  a  serious 
illness;  but  he  sauntered  in  with  an  air  of  not 
knowing  anything  about  it,  and  remarked  casually 
that  he  had  been  for  a  stroll  and  didn't  know  it 
was  so  late.  But  never  a  word  about  the  heron  he 
had  dined  on,  nor  did  he  ever  after  allude  to  the 
subject. 


XI 

THE  MOLE  QUESTION 

As  to  whether  the  mole  is  injurious  or  not,  the 
farmer  appears  not  yet  to  have  made  up  his  mind. 
Mole  clubs  flourish  throughout  the  country,  which 
fact  may  be  taken  by  some  as  proof  that  the 
creature  is  regarded  as  an  enemy.  Is  it  so?  There 
are  many  farmers  who  subscribe  to  the  local  mole 
club,  and  occasionally  have  their  grounds  cleared, 
yet  they  say  that  they  do  not  know  that  they  are 
doing  themselves  any  good,  some  are  even  inclined 
to  think  that  it  would  perhaps  be  better  to  leave 
the  moles  alone.  They  go  on  subscribing  to  clubs 
in  the  same  way  that  so  many  of  us  give  our  crowns 
or  half-quineas  year  by  year  for  objects  we  care 
nothing  about,  and  do  not  know  whether  they 
are  good  or  bad.  All  the  other  farmers  in  the 
place  have  paid  their  subscriptions,  and  Jones 
gives  his  so  as  not  to  be  set  down  as  a  mean  or 
singular  person,  and  because  it  would  be  a  bother 
to  have  any  controversy  over  the  subject.  The 
others  have  probably  subscribed  for  the  same  poor 
reason. 

Occasionally    we    meet    a    farmer    who    is    quite 


114    THE  BOOK  OF  A  NATURALIST 

positive  on  one  side  or  the  other;  he  knows  all 
about  it,  and  is  angry  with  his  neighbours  either 
because  they  do  or  do  not  kill  their  moles.  There 
are  always  a  few  extremists.  Every  one  has  heard 
of  Mr.  Joseph  Nunn,  who  maintains  that  the 
sparrow  is  the  farmer's  best  feathered  friend,  and 
is  carried  by  his  zeal  to  the  length  of  declaring  that 
all  those  who  shoot  the  sparrow  ought  themselves 
to  be  shot.  I  hear  of  another  farmer  who  buys 
moles  from  mole-catchers  to  put  on  his  land;  he 
is  convinced  that  their  presence  is  wholly  bene- 
ficial, that  when  those  inhabiting  the  lands  adjoin- 
ing his  farm  have  been  killed  off,  his  own  moles 
flow  out  into  these  depleted  grounds  to  enjoy  the 
greater  abundance  of  food  they  find  there;  and  it 
is  to  make  good  this  loss  inflicted  on  him  by  the 
ignorance  and  stupidity  of  his  neighbours  that  he 
is  obhged  to  act  as  he  does. 

Recently  I  was  with  a  man  who  takes  the 
opposite  view;  one  who  revolves  schemes  and 
projects  for  the  suppression  of  the  mole.  This 
enemy  of  the  mole  is  in  possession  of  three  or  four 
water-meadows,  infested  by  these  animals  to  an 
extraordinary  degree.  As  he  is  partly  dependent 
for  a  livelihood  on  a  few  milch-cows  he  keeps,  the 
condition  of  this  meadow  land  is  a  matter  of  im- 
portance to  him;  and  he  has  come  to  the  con- 
clusion that  he  loses  a  large  portion  (a  fourth,  he 
imagines)  of  his  grass  crop  on  account  of  the 
uneven  condition  of  the  surface  caused  by  the 
molps.     It  is  true  that  he  could  roll  the  ground, 


THE  MOLE  QUESTION  115 

and  it  would  then  probably  be  in  a  sufficiently 
level  state  at  the  next  grass-cutting  for  the  scythe, 
but  by  the  following  season  it  would  again  be  in  a 
hummocky  condition,  and  repeated  rollings  would 
be  a  serious  item  in  his  expenses.  He  considers 
that  if  the  damage  thus  inflicted  on  him  in  these 
small  meadows  where  the  scythe  is  used  is 
sufiicient  to  be  seriously  felt,  the  loss  must  indeed 
be  great  on  large  farms  where  the  machine  is  used 
for  mowing,  and  the  ground  must  be  kept  in  a 
smooth  condition  at  considerable  expense. 

Pondering  over  these  things,  and  fighting  the 
moles,  which,  not  content  with  making  a  sort  of 
physical  geography  raised  map  of  his  little  grass 
meadows,  nightly  invade  his  garden  to  spoil  his 
work  there,  he  has  come  to  look  upon  it  as  a 
tremendously  important  question.  It  is  his  con- 
viction that  he  who  invents  a  means  of  suppressing 
the  mole  will  be  a  great  benefactor  to  the  country, 
and  he  has  set  himself  to  find  out  the  means,  and 
he  has  even  strong  hopes  of  success.  So  long  (he 
argues)  as  we  continued  to  fight  the  moles  with 
the  traps  now  in  use,  made  to  take  one  mole  at  a 
time,  the  very  utmost  we  can  do  is  to  keep  their 
numbers  down  with  a  great  deal  of  trouble  and 
at  a  considerable  expense.  They  increase  rapidly, 
and  no  sooner  are  our  efforts  relaxed  than  they 
again  become  abundant.  We  want  a  trap  that 
will  not  take  a  single  mole  but  as  many  moles  as 
are  accustomed  to  use  the  run  in  which  it  is  placed. 
That  a  large  number  do  constantly  use  the  same 


116    THE  BOOK  OF  A  NATURALIST 

main  road  by  which  they  migrate  from  one  hunting- 
ground  to  the  other  is  to  him  a  settled  fact.  One 
of  his  neighbours  took  thirty-two  moles,  one  by 
one,  in  the  course  of  a  few  days  in  a  single  trap 
placed  at  the  same  place  in  a  run — a  proof  that  all 
the  moles  in  the  place  that  range  any  day  over  an 
area  of  many  acres  have  roads  that  are  free  to  the 
colony.  All  we  have  got  to  do,  then,  is  to  find  one 
of  these  principal  roads,  usually  at  the  side  of  a 
hedge,  and  to  place  a  trap  capable  of  holding  as 
many  moles  as  may  come  into  it,  and  the  thing 
is  done. 

To  inform  my  rural  friend  that  he  was  not  the 
first  person  to  have  great  dreams  anent  the  mole 
question,  I  related  to  him  the  history  of  the  famous 
Henri  le  Court,  described  by  Bell  in  his  British 
Quadrupeds  as  "a  person,  who  having  held  a 
lucrative  situation  about  the  Court  at  the  epoch  of 
the  French  Revolution,  retired  from  the  horrors  of 
that  fearful  period  into  the  country,  and  there 
devoted  the  remainder  of  his  life  to  a  study  of  the 
habits  of  the  mole,  and  of  the  most  efficient  means 
for  its  extirpation." 

It  surprised  him  to  hear  that  men  of  brains  had 
begun  to  occupy  themselves  with  this  question  as 
long  ago  as  the  eighteenth  century;  but  the 
thought  that  nothing  important  had  resulted  from 
their  efforts  in  so  long  a  time  did  not  discourage 
him:  it  was  simply  the  case  that,  brains  or  no 
brains,  he  had  been  so  lucky  as  to  hit  upon  the 
one   efficacious   means    for   the   extirpation    of  the 


THE  MOLE  QUESTION  117 

mole,  which  all  before  him  had  missed — to  wit, 
his  trap. 

This  frightful  engine  of  destruction  is  not  yet 
perfected,  and  perhaps  the  moles  need  not  be  in  a 
hurry  to  say  their  prayers.  In  the  meantime, 
while  the  farmers  are  waiting  to  be  delivered  from 
their  subterranean  enemy,  I  cannot  help  thinking 
that  it  is  not  much  to  the  credit  of  the  science  of 
agriculture,  and  the  Royal  Agricultural  Society, 
that  some  practical  steps  have  not  been  taken 
before  now  to  ascertain  whether  or  not  the  mole 
is  an  injurious  beast;  or,  to  put  it  differently, 
whether  the  direct  loss  he  causes  by  throwing 
up  hills  in  meadows  and  grass-lands  exceeds  any 
benefit  that  may  result  from  his  presence  in  drain- 
ing and  ventilating  the  soil  and  in  clearing  it  of 
grubs. 

With  gardens  and  lawns  we  are  not  concerned; 
moles  are  a  nuisance  when  they  come  too  near, 
and  if  some  one  could  devise  a  means  to  inflict 
sudden  death  on  every  underground  intruder  into 
such  places  it  would  be  a  great  advantage.  Ex- 
periments in  a  small  way  could  be  made  at  a  very 
slight  cost.  For  instance,  take  a  meadow,  like  one 
of  those  belonging  to  my  friend,  very  much  infested 
with  moles;  divide  it  in  two  equal  portions,  one 
half  to  be  open  to  moles,  the  other  half  to  be 
strictly  protected  from  them  by  means  of  a  fence 
of  fine  wire-netting  sunk  to  a  proper  depth  in 
the  soil.  Then  let  the  grass  crops  of  'he  two 
portions  be  compared  as  to  weight  and  quality  for 


118    THE  BOOK  OF  A  NATURALIST 

a  period  of  four  or  five  years.  Such  an  experi- 
ment carried  out  by  a  number  of  farmers  at  the 
same  time  in  different  parts  of  the  country  would 
probably  result  in  the  settlement  of  this  old  vexed 
question. 


XII 

CRISTIANO:  A  HORSE 

A  GAUCHO  of  my  acquaintance,  when  I  lived  on 
the  pampas  and  was  a  very  young  man,  owned 
a  favourite  riding  -  horse  which  he  had  named 
Cristiano.  To  the  gaucho  "  Christian "  is  simply 
another  word  for  white  man:  he  gave  it  that 
name  because  one  of  its  eyes  was  a  pale  blue-grey 
almost  white — a  colour  sometimes  seen  in  the  eyes 
of  a  white  man,  but  never  in  an  Indian.  The  other 
eye  was  normal,  though  of  a  much  lighter  brown 
than  usual.  Cristiano,  however,  could  see  equally 
well  out  of  both  eyes,  nor  was  the  blue  eye  on  one 
side  correlated  with  deafness,  as  in  a  white  cat.  His 
sense  of  hearing  was  quite  remarkable.  His  colour 
was  a  fine  deep  fawn,  with  black  mane  and  tail,  and 
altogether  he  was  a  handsome  and  a  good,  strong, 
sound  animal;  his  owner  was  so  much  attached 
to  him  that  he  would  seldom  ride  any  other  horse, 
and  as  a  rule  he  had  him  saddled  every  day. 

Now  if  it  had  only  been  the  blue  eye  I  should 
probably  have  forgotten  Cristiano,  as  I  made  no 
notes  about  him,  but  I  remember  him  vividly  to 
this  day  on  account  of  something  arresting  in  his 


120    THE  BOOK  OF  A  NATURALIST 

psychology:  he  was  an  example  of  the  powerful 
effect  of  the  conditions  he  had  been  reared  in  and 
of  the  persistence  of  habits  acquired  at  an  early 
period  after  they  have  ceased  to  be  of  any  signifi- 
cance in  the  creature's  life.  Every  time  I  was  in 
my  gaucho  friend's  company,  when  his  favourite 
Cristiano,  along  with  other  saddle  horses,  was 
standing  at  the  palenque,  or  row  of  posts  set  up 
before  the  door  of  a  native  rancho  for  visitors  to 
fasten  their  horses  to,  my  attention  would  be 
attracted  to  his  singular  behaviour.  His  master 
always  tied  him  to  the  palenque  with  a  long  cabresto, 
or  lariat,  to  give  him  plenty  of  space  to  move  his 
head  and  whole  body  about  quite  freely.  And  that 
was  just  what  he  was  always  doing.  A  more 
restless  horse  I  had  never  seen.  His  head  was 
always  raised  as  high  as  he  could  raise  it — like  an 
ostrich,  the  gauchos  would  say — his  gaze  fixed 
excitedly  on  some  far  object;  then  presently  he 
would  wheel  round  and  stare  in  another  direction, 
pointing  his  ears  forw^ard  to  listen  intently  to  some 
faint  far  sound,  which  had  touched  his  sense.  The 
sounds  that  excited  him  most  were  as  a  rule  the 
alarm  cries  of  lapwings,  and  the  objects  he  gazed 
fixedly  at  with  a  great  show  of  apprehension 
would  usually  turn  out  to  be  a  horseman  on  the 
horizon;  but  the  sounds  and  sights  would  for  some 
time  be  inaudible  and  invisible  to  us  on  account  of 
their  distance.  Occasionally,  when  the  bird's  alarm 
cries  grew  loud  and  the  distant  rider  was  found 
to  be  approaching,  his  excitement  would  increase 


CRISTIANO:  A  HORSE  121 

until  it  would  discharge  itself  in  a  resounding  snort 
— the  warning  or  alarm  note  of  the  wild  horse. 

One  day  I  remarked  to  my  gaucho  friend  that 
his  blue-eyed  Cristiano  amused  me  more  than  any 
other  horse  I  knew.  He  was  just  like  a  child,  and 
when  tired  of  the  monotony  of  standing  tethered 
to  the  palenque  he  would  start  playing  sentinel. 
He  would  imagine  it  was  war-time  or  that  an 
invasion  of  Indians  was  expected,  and  every  cry 
of  a  lapwing  or  other  alarm-giving  bird,  or  the 
sight  of  a  horseman  in  the  distance  would  cause 
him  to  give  a  warning.  But  the  other  horses  would 
not  join  in  the  game;  they  let  him  keep  watch 
and  wheel  about  this  way  and  that,  spying  or 
pretending  to  spy  something,  and  blowing  his  loud 
trumpet,  without  taking  any  notice.  They  simply 
dozed  with  heads  down,  occasionally  switching  off 
the  flies  with  their  tails  or  stamping  a  hoof  to  get 
them  off  their  legs,  or  rubbing  their  tongues  over 
the  bits  to  make  a  rattling  sound  with  the  little 
iron  rollers  on  the  bridle-bar. 

He  laughed  and  said  I  was  mistaken,  that 
Cristiano  was  not  amusing  himself  with  a  game  he 
had  invented.  He  was  born  wild  and  belonged  to 
a  district  not  many  leagues  away  but  where  there 
was  an  extensive  marshy  area  impracticable  for 
hunting  on  horseback.  Here  a  band  of  wild  horses, 
a  small  remnant  of  an  immense  troop  that  had 
formerly  existed  in  that  part,  had  been  able  to 
keep  their  freedom  down  to  recent  years.  As  they 
were  frequently  hunted  in   dry   seasons  when  the 


122    THE  BOOK  OF  A  NATURALIST 

ground  was  not  so  bad,  they  had  become  exceed- 
ingly alert  and  cunning,  and  the  sight  of  men  on 
horseback  would  send  them  flying  to  the  most 
inaccessible  places  in  the  marshes,  where  it  was 
impossible  to  follow  them.  Eventually  plans  were 
laid  and  the  troop  driven  from  their  stronghold 
out  into  the  open  country,  where  the  ground  was 
firm,  and  most  of  them  were  captured.  Cristiano 
was  one  of  them,  a  colt  about  four  or  five  months 
old,  and  my  friend  took  possession  of  him, 
attracted  by  his  blue  eye  and  fine  fawn  colour. 
In  quite  a  short  time  the  colt  became  perfectly 
tame,  and  when  broken  turned  out  an  exceptionally 
good  riding-horse.  But  though  so  young  when 
captured  the  wild  alert  habit  was  never  dropped. 
He  could  never  be  still:  when  out  grazing  with 
the  other  horses  or  when  standing  tied  to  the 
palenque  he  was  perpetually  on  the  watch,  and  the 
cry  of  a  plover,  the  sound  of  galloping  hoofs,  the 
sight  of  a  horseman,  would  startle  him  and  cause 
him  to  trumpet  his  alarm. 

It  strikes  me  as  rather  curious  that  in  spite  of 
Cristiano's  evident  agitation  at  certain  sounds  and 
sights,  it  never  went  to  the  length  of  a  panic;  he 
never  attempted  to  break  loose  and  run  away. 
He  behaved  just  as  if  the  plover's  cry  or  the 
sound  of  hoofs  or  the  sight  of  mounted  men  had 
produced  an  illusion — that  he  was  once  more  a 
wild  hunted  horse — yet  he  never  acted  as  though 
it  was  an  illusion.  It  was  apparently  nothing  more 
than  a  memory  and  a  habit. 


XIII 

MARY'S  LITTLE  LAMB 

This  is  the  history  of  a  pet  lamb  that  differed 
mentally  from  other  lambs  I  have  known.  One 
does  not  look  for  anything  approaching  to  marked 
individuality  in  that  animal,  yet  sheep  do  show  it 
on  occasions  though  not  in  the  same  degree  as 
cats  and  dogs.  Goats  exhibit  more  character  than 
sheep,  probably  because  we  do  not  compel  them  to 
live  in  a  crowd.  Indeed,  when  we  consider  how 
our  poor  domesticated  sheep  is  kept  we  can  see 
that  they  have  little  chance  of  developing  in- 
dividuality of  mind.  A  sheep  cannot  "  follow  his 
own  genius,"  so  to  speak,  without  infringing  the 
laws  we  have  made  for  his  kind.  His  condition  in 
this  respect  is  similar  to  that  of  human  beings 
under  a  purely  socialistic  form  of  government: 
for  example,  like  that  of  the  ancient  civilised 
Peruvians.  In  that  state  every  man  did  as  he  was 
told:  worked  and  rested,  got  up  and  sat  down, 
ate,  drank,  and  slept,  married,  grew  old  and  died 
in  the  precise  way  prescribed.  And  I  daresay  if 
he  tried  to  be  original  or  to  do  something  out  of 
the   common   he   was    knocked    on   the   head.      So 

123 


124    THE  BOOK  OF  A  NATURALIST 

with  our  sheep.  The  shepherd,  assisted  by  his 
dog,  maps  out  his  whole  hfe  for  him,  from  birth 
to  death,  and  he  is  not  permitted  to  stray  from  the 
path  in  which  he  is  made  to  walk.  But  if  a  lamb 
be  taken  from  the  flock  and  reared  at  a  farm  and 
given  the  same  liberty  that  cats  and  dogs  and  even 
many  goats  enjoy,  he  will  in  almost  every  case 
develop  a  character  of  his  own. 

I  remember  a  tame  sheep  we  once  had  at  my 
home  on  the  pampas  who  in  thieving  could  give 
points  to  many  thievish  dogs,  not  excepting  the 
pointer  himself,  the  most  accomplished  thief  in  the 
entire  canine  gang.  Tobacco  and  books  were  the 
objects  this  mischievous  beast  was  perpetually 
foraging  for  when  she  could  get  into  the  house. 
Tobacco  was  hard  to  come  at  even  when  she  had 
a  good  long  time  to  look  for  it  before  some  one 
came  on  the  scene  to  send  her  about  her  business 
with  a  good  whack  or  a  kick.  But  books  were 
often  left  lying  about  on  tables  and  chairs  and 
were  easily  got  at.  She  knew  very  well  that  it  was 
wrong  and  that  if  detected  she  would  have  to 
suffer,  but  she  was  exceedingly  cunning,  and  from 
a  good  distance  would  keep  an  eye  on  the  house, 
and  when  she  saw  or  cunningly  guessed  that  no 
person  was  in  the  sitting-  or  dining-room  or  any 
other  room  i\'ith  the  door  standing  open,  she  would 
steal  quietly  in  and  finding  a  book  would  catch 
it  hastily  up  and  make  off  with  it.  Carrying  it  off 
to  the  plantation  she  would  set  it  down,  put  her 
hoof  on  it,   and  start  tearing  out   the  leaves  and 


MARY'S  LITTLE  LAMB  125 

devouring  them  as  expeditiously  as  possible.  Once 
she  had  got  hold  of  a  book  she  would  not  give  it 
up — not  all  the  shouting  and  chasing  after  her 
would  make  her  drop  it.  Away  she  would  rush 
until  fifty  yards  or  more  ahead  of  her  hunters; 
then  she  would  stop,  set  it  down  and  begin  hurriedly 
tearing  out  the  leaves;  then  when  the  hunt  drew 
near  with  loud  halloo  she  would  snatch  it  up  and 
rush  on  with  it  flapping  about  her  face,  and  leave 
us  all  far  behind.  Eventually,  when  her  depreda- 
tions could  no  longer  be  tolerated,  she  was  sent 
away  to  the  flock. 

An  English  settler  in  Patagonia  I  used  to  stay 
with  when  visiting  that  part  kept  a  tame  guanaco 
at  his  estancia,  which  had  a  habit  resembling  that 
of  our  book-stealing  sheep.  This  animal  had  been 
captured  when  small  by  some  guanaco-hunters, 
and  my  friend  reared  and  made  a  pet  of  it.  When 
grown  up  it  associated  with  the  sheep  and  other 
domestic  animals  and  was  friendly  with  the  dogs, 
but  spent  much  of  its  time  roaming  by  itself  over 
the  plains.  He  had  the  run  of  the  house  as  well, 
but  at  length  had  to  be  excluded  on  account  of  his 
passion  for  devouring  any  white  linen  or  cotton 
which  he  could  get  hold  of.  But  the  guanaco,  like 
our  sheep,  was  cunning  and  would  approach  the 
house  from  the  back  and  make  his  way  into  a 
bedroom  to  snatch  up  and  make  off  with  a  towel, 
night-shirt,  handkerchief,  or  anything  he  could  find 
of  linen  or  cotton,  so  long  as  it  was  white.  One 
day  my  host  came  in  to  get  himself  ready  to  attend 


126     THE  BOOK  OF  A  NATURALIST 

a  meeting  and  dinner  at  a  neighbouring  estancia, 
and  after  putting  out  his  linen  on  his  bed  he  went 
into  an  adjoining  room  for  a  hot  bath.  Coming 
back  to  his  bedroom  he  was  just  in  time  to  see  his 
pet  guanaco  pick  up  his  beautifuUy-got-up  snow- 
white  shirt  from  the  bed  and  make  a  dash  for  the 
open  door.  He  uttered  a  wild  yell,  which  had  no 
effect,  but  he  was  determined  not  to  lose  his  shirt, 
for  at  that  moment  he  remembered  that  it  was  the 
only  clean  one  he  possessed;  he  rushed  out  just 
as  he  was  with  nothing  but  a  towel  round  him,  and 
jumping  on  to  his  horse,  which  stood  saddled  at 
the  gate,  started  in  pursuit.  Away  he  went, 
shouting  to  the  dogs  to  come  and  help  him  recover 
his  shirt.  His  yell  and  shouts  brought  all  the  men 
about  the  place  on  the  scene,  and  running  out  they 
too  mounted  their  horses  in  hot,  haste  and  started 
after  him.  And  away  far  ahead  of  them  went  the 
guanaco  at  a  pace  no  horse  could  equal,  the  shirt 
held  firmly  in  his  teeth  waving  and  flapping  like  a 
white  banner  in  the  wind.  But  from  time  to  time 
he  made  a  stop,  and  bringing  the  shirt  down  to  the 
ground  would  hurriedly  tear  a  piece  out  of  it,  then 
picking  it  up  would  rusH  on  again.  The  dogs  over- 
took him  only  to  dance  round  him,  barking  joy- 
fully to  encourage  him  to  run  on  and  keep  the  fun 
going.  He  was  their  friend  and  playmate,  and  it 
was  to  them  nothing  but  a  jolly  sham  hunt  got  up 
by  their  sport-loving  master  for  their  amusement. 
The  chase  led  up  the  valley  of  the  river,  a  great 
flat   plain,   and   continued    for   about   four  to   five 


MARY'S  LITTLE  LAMB  127 

miles;  by  that  time  the  precious  shirt  had  dwindled 
to  something  quite  small — nothing  in  fact  was 
left  but  the  hard  starched  front,  which  the  guanaco 
found  it  difficult  to  masticate  and  swallow.  Then 
at  long  last  the  hunt  was  given  up  and  my  poor 
shirtless  friend  in  his  towel  rode  mournfully  home 
in  the  midst  of  laughing  companions,  attended,  too, 
by  a  lot  of  dogs,  lolling  their  tongues  out  and  over- 
flowingly  happy  at  having  had  such  an  exciting  run. 
Let  me  now  come  to  the  subject  I  sat  down  to 
write  about — namely,  Mary's  little  lamb.  It  was 
little  to  begin  with,  when  my  youngest  sister,  who 
was  not  then  very  big  herself,  and  was  always 
befriending  forlorn  creatures,  came  in  one  day 
from  the  shepherd's  ranch  with  a  young  lamb 
which  had  unhappily  lost  its  mother.  Oddly 
enough  this  little  sister's  name  was  Mary — one 
seldom  hears  it  in  these  Doris,  Doreen  days,  but 
in  that  distant  Mary-Jane-Elizabeth  period  it  was 
quite  common.  And  the  motherless  lamb  she  had 
brought  in  grew  to  be  her  pet  lamb,  with  fleece 
as  white  as  snow;  nor  was  the  whiteness  strange 
seeing  that  it  was  washed  every  day  with  scented 
soap,  its  beauteous  neck  beribboned  and  often 
decorated  with  garlands  of  scarlet  verbenas  which 
looked  exceedingly  brilliant  against  the  snowy  fleece. 
A  pretty,  sweet-tempered  and  gentle  creature  it 
proved  and  never  developed  any  naughty  proclivi- 
ties like  the  tobacco-  and  book-plundering  sheep  of 
an  earlier  date.  They  were  very  fond  of  each 
other,  those  two  simple  beings,  and  just  as  in  the 


128    THE  BOOK  OF  A  NATURALIST 

old  familiar  rhyme  wherever  Mary  went  her  little 
lamb  would  go.  But  there  was  a  little  rift  within 
the  lute  which  by  and  by  would  widen  till  it  made 
the  music  mute.  The  lamb  was  excessively  playful 
and  frisky,  but  its  mistress  had  her  little  lessons 
and  duties  to  attend  to,  and  the  lamb  couldn't 
understand  it,  and  often  after  frisking  and  jumping 
about  to  challenge  the  other  to  a  fresh  race  in  vain 
it  would  run  away  to  get  up  a  race  or  game  of 
some  sort  with  the  youngest  of  the  dogs.  The 
dogs  were  responsive,  so  that  they  were  quite 
happy  together. 

We  kept  eight  dogs  at  that  time;  two  were 
pointers,  all  the  others  just  the  common  dog  of  the 
country,  a  smooth-haired  animal  about  the  size  of 
a  collie.  Like  all  dogs  allowed  to  exist  in  their  own 
way,  they  formed  a  pack,  the  most  powerful  one 
being  their  leader  and  master.  They  spent  most 
of  their  time  lying  stretched  dog-fashion  in  the 
sun  in  some  open  place  near  the  house,  fast  asleep. 
They  had  little  to  do  except  bark  at  strangers 
approaching  the  house  and  to  hunt  off  the  cattle 
that  tried  to  force  their  way  through  the  fences 
into  the  plantation.  They  would  also  go  off  on 
hunting  expeditions  of  their  own.  Strange  play- 
mates and  companions  for  Libby,  as  she  was 
named,  the  pretty  pet  lamb  with  fleece  as  white 
as  snow;  yet  so  congenial  did  she  find  the  dogs' 
society  that  by  and  by  she  passed  her  whole  time 
with  them,  day  and  night.  When  they  came  to 
the  door  to  bark  and  whine  and  wag  their  tails  to 


MARY'S  LITTLE  LAMB  129 

call  attention  to  their  wants  or  to  be  noticed,  the 
lamb  would  be  with  them  but  would  not  cross  the 
threshold  since  the  dogs  were  not  permitted  in  the 
rooms.  Nor  would  she  come  to  her  mistress  when 
called,  and  having  discovered  that  grass  was  her 
proper  food  she  wanted  nothing  that  human 
beings  could  give  her.  Not  even  a  lump  of  sugar! 
She  was  no  longer  a  pet  lamb;  she  was  one  of  the 
dogs.  The  dogs  on  their  part,  although  much  given 
to  quarrels  and  fights  among  themselves,  never 
growled  or  snapped  at  Libby;  she  never  tried  to 
snatch  a  bone  from  them,  and  she  made  them  a 
comfortable  pillow  when  they  slept  and  slumbered 
for  hours  at  a  stretch.  And  Libby,  just  to  be  always 
with  them  and  to  do  exactly  as  they  did,  would 
sleep  too.  Or  rather  she  would  lie  stretched  out 
on  the  ground  pretending  to  sleep,  always  with  the 
head  of  one  of  the  dogs  pillowed  on  her  neck.  Tv/o 
or  three  or  four  of  the  other  dogs  who  had  failed 
to  secure  the  pillow  would  lie  round  her  with  their 
heads  pressed  against  her  fleece.  They  would  form 
a  curiously  amusing  group.  Then  if  a  shrill  whistle 
was  emitted  by  some  one,  or  the  cry  of  "  Up  and 
at  'em,"  the  lamb  would  spring  like  lightning  to 
her  feet,  throwing  the  drowsy  dog  off,  and  away 
she  would  dash  down  the  avenue  to  get  outside  the 
plantation  and  find  out  what  the  trouble  was. 
Then  the  dogs,  shaking  off  their  sleep,  would  start 
off  and  perhaps  overtake  her  a  couple  of  hundred 
yards  away. 

Most  amusing  of  all  the  lamb's  acting  was  when 


130     THE  BOOK  OF  A  NATURALIST 

the  dogs  had  their  periodical  hunting  fits,  when 
they  would  vanish  for  half  a  day's  vizcacha-hunting 
pn  the  plain,  just  as  fox-terriers  and  other  dogs 
in  which  the  hunting  instinct  still  survives  steal 
out  of  the  village  to  chase  or  dig  out  rabbits  on 
their  own  account. 

The  vizcacha  is  a  big  rodent  and  hves  in 
communities,  in  warrens  or  villages  composed  of  a 
group  of  huge  burrows,  and  the  native  dogs  are 
fond  of  assaulting  these  strongholds  but  seldom 
succeed  in  getting  at  their  quarry.  A  dog  no  bigger 
than  a  fox-terrier  can  make  his  way  in  till  he 
comes  to  grips  with  the  vizcacha,  usually  with  the 
result  that  he  gets  well  punished  for  his  audacity. 
Our  dogs  would  simply  labour  to  enlarge  the 
burrows  by  scratching  and  biting  away  the  earth 
and  furiously  barking  at  the  animal  inside  who 
would  emit  curious  noises  and  cries,  which  the  dogs 
appeared  to  regard  as  insults  and  would  only 
cause  them  to  redouble  their  efforts. 

On  several  occasions,  when  riding  on  the  plain 
a  mile  or  two  from  home,  I  would  come  on  our 
dogs — ^the  entire  pack  and  the  lamb  with  them, 
engaged  in  the  siege  and  assault  of  a  vizcacha 
village  or  earth.  A  funny  sight!  The  dogs  would 
jump  up  barking  and  wagging  their  tails  as  if  to 
say,  "  Here  we  are,  you  see,  just  in  the  middle  of 
our  fight  with  no  time  to  spare  for  friendly  con- 
versation." And  back  they  would  fly  to  their 
burrows.  The  lamb  too  would  dance  up  to  give 
me  a  welcome  and  then  back  to  her  duties.     Her 


MARY'S  LITTLE  LAMB  131 

part  was  to  go  frisking  about  from  burrow  to 
burrow,  now  taking  a  flying  leap  over  the  pit-like 
mouth,  then  diving  down  to  see  how  things  were 
progressing  inside,  where  the  dog  was  tearing  at 
the  earth  and  trying  to  force  himself  in  and  keep- 
ing up  a  running  dialogue  of  threats  and  insults 
with  the  beast  inside. 

But  though  Libby,  in  these  her  dog  days,  was  a 
continual  joy  to  us,  we  thought  it  best  for  her  own 
sake  to  put  an  end  to  them.  For  in  spite  of  her 
activities  she  was  in  very  good  condition,  and  any 
poor  gaucho  who  came  upon  her,  hunting  with  our 
dogs  a  few  miles  from  home,  would  be  justified  in 
saying:  "Here  is  a  good  fat  animal  without  an 
ear-mark,  consequently  without  an  owner;  and 
though  I  find  it  in  the  company  of  Neighbour 
So-and-So's  dogs,  it  can't  be  his  since  he  has  put 
no  mark  on  it,  and  as  I've  found  it  I  have  a  right 
to  it,  and  I'm  quite  sure  from  its  appearance  that 
its  flesh  when  roasted  will  prove  tender  and 
savoury." 

Accordingly  we  took  Libby  away  from  her 
companions  and  put  her  with  the  flock,  where  in 
due  time  she  would  learn  that  a  sheep  is  a  sheep 
and  not  a  dog. 


There  are,  I  imagine,  few  old  sportsmen,  field 
naturalists,  and  observers  of  animal  life  generally 
who  have  not  met  with  similar  instances  of  animals 
of    widely    different    natures,    in    some    instances 


132    THE  BOOK  OF  A  NATURALIST 

natural  enemies,  living  and  even  acting  in  harmony 
together.  We  see  it  chiefly  in  the  domesticated 
and  in  tamed  wild  animals.  When  visiting  a  friend 
in  Patagonia  I  was  greatly  astonished  one  day  on 
going  out  with  a  gim  to  shoot  something  followed 
by  the  dogs  to  find  a  black  cat  in  their  company, 
and  to  see  her  when  I  fired  my  first  shot  actually 
dashing  off  before  the  dogs  to  retrieve  the  bird! 

One  of  the  amusing  recollections  of  an  old  lady 
friend  of  mine,  a  lover  of  animals,  was  of  a  pet  cat 
and  rabbit  which  had  been  reared  from  babyhood 
together  and  were  always  fed  out  of  one  saucer  of 
milk,  and  when  they  grew  up  from  one  dish.  It 
was  common  to  see  them  exchange  foods,  and  the 
cat  would  be  seen  laboriously  gnawing  at  a  cabbage 
stalk  while  the  rabbit  picked  a  bone. 

My  friend  Mr.  Tregarthen,  author  of  Wild  Life  at 
the  Land's  End,  has  just  kindly  furnished  me  with 
two  or  three  remarkable  instances  known  to  him  of 
hunting  and  hunted  animals  living  together  in 
happy  companionship.  One  is  of  a  tame  fox, 
taken  when  small  and  reared  in  the  kennels  with 
fox-hounds.  When  fully  grown  its  great  game 
when  the  dogs  were  taken  out  for  exercise  was 
to  scamper  off  and  give  them  a  chase.  Invariably 
when  overtaken  it  would  throw  itself  on  its  back 
and  allow  itself  to  be  worried  in  fun.  They  never 
hurt  it.  Then  there  are  two  instances  of  otters 
reared  from  puppyhood  with  otter-hounds.  In  one 
case  the  otter  would  go  otter-hunting  with  the 
hounds;    in    the    second    case    the    otter    did    not 


MARY'S  LITTLE  LAMB  133 

accompany  the  hounds,  or  was  not  allowed  to  go 
with  them,  but  the  hounds,  although  they  hunted 
their  quarry  with  all  the  zeal  and  fury  natural  to 
them,  refused  to  bite  or  hurt  it  in  any  way  when 
they  got  it.  Their  friendship  with  an  otter  had 
had  a  psychological  effect  on  their  otter-hound 
natures. 


XIV 

THE  SERPENT'S  TONGUE 

"  But  now,"  says  Ruskin,  "  here's  the  first  thing, 
it  seems  to  me,  we've  got  to  ask  the  scientific 
people  what  use  a  serpent  has  for  its  tongue,  since 
it  neither  works  it  to  talk  with,  or  taste  with,  or 
hiss  with,  nor,  as  far  as  I  know,  to  lick  with,  and, 
least  of  all,  to  sting  with — and  yet,  for  people  who 
do  not  know  the  creature,  the  little  vibrating 
forked  thread,  flicked  out  of  its  mouth  and  back 
again,  as  quick  as  lightning,  is  the  most  striking 
part  of  the  beast;  but  what  is  the  use  of  it? 
Nearly  every  creature  but  a  snake  can  do  some  sort 
of  mischief  with  its  tongue.  A  woman  worries  with 
it,  a  chameleon  catches  flies  with  it,  a  cat  steals 
milk  with  it,  a  pholas  digs  holes  in  the  rock  with 
it,  and  a  gnat  digs  holes  in  us  with  it;  but  the 
poor  snake  cannot  do  any  manner  of  harm  with  it 
whatsoever;  and  what  is  his  tongue  forked  for? " 

The  writer's  manner  in  this  paragraph,  and  the 
unexpectedness  of  the  mocking  question  that  leaps 
out  at  the  end,  suggests  the  idea  that  there  are,  in 
man,  two  sorts  of  forked  tongues,  and  that  one 
sort  is  not  worked  for  mischief.  Certainly  few  of 
134 


THE  SERPENT'S  TONGUE  135 

these  "  vibrating  forked  threads  "  in  literature  have 
flickered  more  starthngly,  hke  forked  lightning,  and 
to  the  purpose,  than  Ruskin's  own.  The  passage 
is  admirable,  both  in  form  and  essence;  it  shines 
even  in  that  brilliant  lecture  on  Living  Waves  from 
which  it  is  taken,  and  where  there  are  very  many 
fine  things,  along  with  others  indifferent,  and  a  few 
that  are  bad.  But  there  is  this  fault  to  be  found 
with  it:  after  putting  his  question  to  the 
"  scientific  people,"  the  questioner  assumes  that 
no  answer  is  possible;  that  the  stinging  and  hissing 
and  licking  theories  having  been  discarded,  the 
serpent's  tongue  can  do  no  manner  of  mischief,  and  is 
quite  useless.  A  most  improbable  conclusion,  since 
the  fact  stares  us  in  the  face  that  the  serpent  does 
use  its  tongue;  for  instance,  it  exserts  and  makes  it 
vibrate  rapidly,  but  why  it  does  so  remains  to  be 
known.  It  is  true  that  in  the  long  life  of  a  species 
an  organ  does  sometimes  lose  its  use  without 
dwindling  away,  but  persists  as  a  mere  idle  append- 
age: it  is,  however,  very  unlikely  that  this  has 
happened  in  the  case  of  the  serpent's  tongue;  the 
excitability  and  extreme  activity  at  times  of  that 
organ  rather  incline  one  to  the  opinion  that  it  has 
only  changed  its  original  use  for  a  new  one,  as  has 
happened  in  the  case  of  some  of  the  creatures 
mentioned  in  the  passage  quoted  above. 

"A  chameleon,"  says  Ruskin,  "catches  flies 
with  its  tongue,"  inferring  that  the  snake  has  no 
such  accomplishment.  Yet  the  contrary  has  been 
often    maintained.      "  The    principal    use    of    the 


136    THE  BOOK  OF  A  NATURALIST 

tongue/'  says  Lacepede  in  his  Natural  History  of 
Serpents,  "  is  to  catch  insects,  which  it  catches  by 
means  of  its  double  tongue."  This  notion  about 
the  use  of  the  double  tongue  is  quite  common 
among  the  older  ophiologists,  and,  along  with  it, 
the  belief  that  snakes  prey  chiefly  on  insects.  And 
here  I  cannot  resist  the  temptation  to  quote  a  few 
more  words  touching  on  this  point  from  Lacepede 
— a  very  perfect  example  of  the  teleological  spirit 
in  science  which  flourished  a  century  ago,  and  made 
things  easy  for  the  naturahst.  "  We  are  not,"  he 
says,  "to  be  amazed  at  the  vast  number  of  serpents, 
both  species  and  individuals,  which  inhabit  the 
intertropical  countries.  There  they  find  the  degree 
of  warmth  which  seems  congenial  to  their  natures, 
and  the  smaller  species  find  abundance  of  insects  to 
serve  them  for  food.  In  those  torrid  regions,  where 
Nature  has  produced  an  infinite  multitude  of 
insects  and  worms,  she  has  likewise  produced  the 
greatest  number  of  serpents  to  destroy  the  worms 
and  insects;  which  othei-wise  would  multiply  so 
exceedingly  as  to  destroy  all  vegetable  productions, 
and  to  reduce  the  most  fertile  regions  of  the  earth 
into  barren  deserts,  inaccessible  to  man  and  animals; 
nay,  even  these  noxious  and  troublesome  insects 
would  be  finally  obhged  to  destroy  each  other,  and 
nothing  would  remain  but  their  mangled  limbs.'* 

Here  the  French  naturalist  pauses,  aghast  at  the 
frightful  picture  of  desolation  he  has  himself  con- 
jured up. 

When  enumerating  the  uses  to  which  a  serpent 


THE  SERPENT'S  TONGUE  137 

does  not  put  its  tongue,  Ruskin  might  very  well 
have  said  that  it  is  not  used  as  a  tactile  organ. 
That  it  is  a  tactile  organ  is  a  very  modern  supposi- 
tion— a  small  hypothesis  about  a  small  matter,  but 
with  a  curious  and  rather  amusing  history.  It  was 
in  the  first  place  given  out  merely  as  a  conjecture, 
but  no  sooner  given  than  accepted  as  an  irrefragable 
fact  by  some  of  the  greatest  authorities  among  us. 
Thus  Dr.  Gunther,  in  his  article  on  snakes  in  the 
Encyclopcedia  Britannica,  ninth  edition,  says,  "  The 
tongue  is  exserted  for  the  purpose  of  feeling  some 
object,  and  sometimes  under  the  influence  of  anger 
or  fear." 

Doubtless  those  who  invented  this  use  for  the 
organ  were  misled  by  observing  snakes  in  captivity, 
in  the  glass  cases  or  cages  in  which  it  is  usual  to 
keep  them;  observing  them  in  such  conditions,  it 
was  easy  to  fall  into  the  mistake,  since  the  serpent, 
when  moving,  is  frequently  seen  to  thrust  his 
tongue  against  the  obstructing  glass.  It  should  be 
remembered  that  glass  is  glass,  a  substance  that 
does  not  exist  in  nature;  that  a  long  and  some- 
times painful  experience  is  necessary  before  even 
the  most  intelligent  among  the  lower  animals  are 
brought  to  understand  its  character;  and,  finally, 
that  the  delicate,  sensitive  tongue  comes  against 
it  for  the  same  reason  that  the  fly  buzzes  and  the 
confined  wild  bird  dashes  itself  against  it  in  their 
efforts  to  escape.  In  a  state  of  nature  when  the 
snake  is  approached,  whether  by  its  prey  or  by 
some  large  animal,  the  tongue  is  obtruded;  again. 


138     THE  BOOK  OF  A  NATURALIST 

when  it  is  cautiously  progressing  through  the 
herbage,  even  when  unalarmed,  the  tongue  is 
exserted  at  frequent  intervals;  but  I  can  say, 
after  a  long  experience  of  snakes,  that  the  exserted 
organ  never  touches  earth,  or  rock,  or  leaf,  or 
anything  whatsoever,  consequently  that  it  is  not 
a  tactile  organ. 

Another  suggestion,  less  improbable  on  the  face 
of  it  than  the  one  just  cited,  is  that  the  tongue, 
without  touching  anything,  may,  in  some  way  not 
yet  known  to  us,  serve  as  an  organ  of  intelhgence. 
The  serpent's  senses  are  defective;  now  when,  in 
the  presence  of  a  strange  object  or  animal,  the 
creature  protrudes  its  long  slender  tongue — not  to 
feel  the  object,  as  has  been  shown — does  it  not  do 
so  to  test  the  air,  to  catch  an  emanation  from  the 
object  which  might  in  some  unknown  way  convey 
to  the  brain  its  character,  whether  animate  or 
inanimate,  cold  or  warm  blooded,  bird,  beast,  or 
reptile,  also  its  size,  etc.?  The  structure  of  the 
organ  itself  does  not  give  support  to  this  supposi- 
tion; it  could  not  taste  an  emanation  without  some 
such  organs  as  are  found  in  the  wonderfully  formed 
antennae  of  insects,  and  with  these  it  is  not  pro- 
vided. 

Only  by  means  of  a  sensitiveness  to  air  waves 
and  vibrations  from  other  living  bodies  near  it,  in 
degree  infinitely  more  delicate  than  that  of  the 
bat's  wing — the  so-called  sixth  sense  of  that  animal 
— could  the  serpent's  tongue  serve  as  an  organ  of 
intelligence.      Here,    again,    the    structure    of    the 


THE  SERPENT'S  TONGUE  139 

tongue  is  against  such  an  hypothesis;  and  if  the 
structure  were  different  it  would  only  remain  to 
be  said  that  the  instrument  performs  its  work  very 
badly. 

Another  explanation  which  has  been  put  for- 
ward by  two  well-known  writers  on  serpent  life. 
Dr.  Stradling  and  Miss  Hopley,  remains  to  be 
noticed.  These  observers  came  independently  to 
the  conclusion  that  the  snake  makes  use  of  his 
tongue  as  a  decoy  to  attract  its  prey. 

In  the  case  of  one  of  these  writers,  the  idea  was 
suggested  by  an  incident  in  our  Zoological  Gardens. 
A  fowl  was  placed  in  a  boa's  cage  to  be  eaten,  and 
immediately  began  hunting  about  for  food  on  the 
floor  of  the  cage;  the  serpent — apparently  seen 
merely  as  an  inanimate  object  —  protruded  its 
tongue,  whereupon  the  fowl  rushed  and  pecked  at 
it,  mistaking  it  for  a  wriggling  worm.  Such  a  thing 
could  not  well  happen  in  a  state  of  nature.  The 
tongue  may  resemble  a  wriggling  worm,  or,  when 
vibrated  very  quickly,  a  fluttering  moth;  but  we 
cannot  assume  that  the  serpent,  however  motion- 
less it  may  lie,  however  in  its  colour  and  pattern 
it  may  assimilate  to  its  surroundings,  is  not  recog- 
nised as  a  separate  and  living  thing  by  a  bird  or 
any  other  wild  animal. 

From  the  foregoing  it  will  be  seen  that  so  far 
from  being  silent  on  this  subject,  as  Ruskin 
imagined,  the  "  scientific  people "  have  found  out 
or  invented  a  variety  of  uses  for  the  serpent's 
tongue.     By  turns   it   has   been   spoken   of   as   an 


140    THE  BOOK  OF  A  NATURALIST 

insect-catching  organ,  a  decoy,  a  tactile  organ,  and, 
in  some  mysterious  way,  an  organ  of  intelligence. 
And,  after  all,  it  is  none  of  these  things,  and  the 
way  is  still  open  for  fresh  speculation. 

I  have  on  numberless  occasions  observed  the 
common  pit-viper  of  southern  South  America, 
which  is  of  a  sluggish  disposition,  lying  in  the  sun 
on  a  bed  of  sand  or  dry  grass,  coiled  or  extended  at 
full  length.  Invariably,  on  approaching  a  snake  of 
this  kind,  I  have  seen  the  tongue  exserted;  that 
nimble,  glistening  organ  was  the  first,  and  for 
some  time  the  only  sign  of  life  or  wakefulness  in 
the  motionless  creature.  If  I  stood  still  at  a  dis- 
tance of  some  yards  to  watch  it,  the  tongue  would 
be  exserted  again  at  intervals;  if  I  moved  nearer, 
or  lifted  my  arms,  or  made  any  movement,  the 
intervals  would  be  shorter  and  the  vibrations  more 
rapid,  and  still  the  creature  would  not  move.  Only 
when  I  drew  very  near  would  other  signs  of  excite- 
ment follow.  At  such  times  the  tongue  has  scarcely 
seemed  to  me  the  "  mute  forked  flash "  that 
Ruskin  calls  it,  but  a  tongue  that  said  something, 
which,  although  not  audible,  was  clearly  understood 
and  easy  to  translate  into  words.  What  it  said  or 
appeared  to  say  was :  "  I  am  not  dead  nor  sleeping, 
and  I  do  not  wish  to  be  disturbed,  much  less 
trodden  upon;  keep  your  distance,  for  your  own 
good  as  well  as  for  mine."  In  other  words,  the 
tongue  was  obtruded  and  vibrated  with  a  'warning 
purpose. 

Doubtless   every   venomous   serpent   of   sluggish 


THE  SERPENT'S  TONGUE  141 

habits  has  more  ways  than  one  of  making  itself 
conspicuous  to  and  warning  off  any  large  heavy 
animal  that  might  injure  by  passing  over  and 
treading  on  it;  and  I  think  that  in  ophidians  of 
this  temper  the  tongue  has  become,  incidentally, 
a  warning  organ.  Small  as  it  is,  its  obtrusion  is 
the  first  of  a  series  of  warning  motions,  and  may 
therefore  be  considered  advantageous  to  the  animal; 
and,  in  spite  of  its  smallness,  I  believe  that  in  very 
many  instances  it  accomplishes  its  purpose  with- 
out the  aid  of  those  larger  and  violent  movements 
and  actions  resorted  to  when  the  danger  becomes 
pressing. 

All  large  animals,  including  man,  when  walking 
on  an  open  space,  see  the  ground  before  them,  with 
every  object  on  it,  even  when  the  head  is  raised 
and  when  the  animal's  attention  is  principally 
directed  to  something  in  the  distance.  The  motions 
of  the  legs,  the  exact  measurement  of  every  slight 
obstruction  and  object  in  the  way — hillocks,  de- 
pressions in  the  soil,  stones,  pebbles,  sticks,  etc. — 
are  almost  automatic;  the  puma  may  have  nothing 
but  his  far-seen  quarry  in  his  mind,  and  the  philo- 
sopher be  thinking  only  of  the  stars,  as  they  move, 
both  quite  unconscious  of  what  their  feet  are  doing; 
but  the  ground  must  be  seen  all  the  same,  otherwise 
they  could  not  go  smoothly  even  over  a  compara- 
tively smooth  surface. 

When  the  man  or  other  animal  progressing  in 
this  ordinary  way  comes  to  where  a  serpent,  with 
a  protective  or  assimilative  colour  and  appearance. 


142     THE  BOOK  OF  A  NATURALIST 

lies  motionless  in  the  path,  he  certainly  sees  it,  but 
without  distinguishing  it  as  a  serpent.  The  vari- 
coloured surface  it  rests  on  and  with  which  it  is 
in  harmony  is  motionless,  consequently  without 
animal  life  and  safe  to  tread  on — a  rough  flooring 
composed  of  mould,  pebbles  and  sand,  dead  and 
green  herbage,  withered  leaves,  twisted  vines,  and 
sticks  warped  by  the  sun,  brown  and  grey  and 
mottled.  But  if  the  smallest  thing  moves  on  that 
still  surface,  if  a  blade  trembles,  or  a  minute  .asect 
flutters  or  flies  up,  the  vision  is  instantly  attracted 
to  the  spot  and  concentrated  on  a  small  area, 
and  as  by  a  flash  every  object  on  it  is  clearly  seen, 
and  its  character  recognised.  Those  who  have 
been  accustomed  to  walk  much  in  dry,  open  places, 
lA  districts  where  snakes  are  abundant,  have  often 
marvelled  at  the  instantaneous  manner  in  which 
something  that  had  been  previously  seen  as  a  mere 
strip  or  patch  of  dull  colour  on  the  mottled  earth, 
as  a  part  of  its  indeterminate  pattern,  has  taken 
the  serpent  form.  And  when  once  it  has  been 
recognised  as  a  serpent  it  is  seen  so  vividly  and 
in  such  sharp  contrast  to  its  surroundings  as  to 
appear  the  most  conspicuous  and  unmistakable 
object  in  nature.  Why,  in  such  cases,  they  ask  in 
astonishment,  did  they  not  recognise  its  character 
sooner?  I  believe  that  in  such  cases  it  is  the 
suddenly  exserted,  glistening,  vibrating  tongue  that 
first  attracts  the  eye  to  the  dangerous  spot  and 
reveals  the  serpent  to  the  mind. 

This    warning    character    is,    I    believe,    as    has 


THE  SERPENT'S  TONGUE  143 

already  been  intimated,  an  incidental  use  of  the 
tongue,  probably  confined,  or  at  all  events  most 
advantageous  to  the  vipers  and  to  other  venomous 
serpents  of  lethargic  habits.  In  the  case  of  the 
extremely  active,  non-venomous  snake,  that  glides 
away  into  hiding  on  the  slightest  alarm,  the  tongue 
would  be  of  little  use  or  no  value  as  a  warning  organ. 
Between  a  snake  of  this  kind  and  the  slumberous 
pit-viper  the  difference  in  habit  is  extreme.  But 
at  bottom,  all  ground  snakes  are  alike  in  disposi- 
tion— all  hate  to  be  disturbed,  and  move  only 
when  necessity  drives;  and  we  can  imagine  that 
when  the  tremendous  weapon  of  a  lethal  tooth  had 
been  acquired,  when  experience  began  to  teach  the 
larger  mammalians  to  view  the  serpentine  form 
with  suspicion  and  to  avoid  it,  the  use  of  the 
tongue  as  a  warning  would  react  on  the  serpent, 
making  it  more  and  more  lethargic  in  habit — as 
inactive,  in  fact,  as  every  snake  loves  to  be. 

There  is,  I  imagine,  another  and  more  important 
use  of  the  tongue,  older  than  its  warning  use, 
although  this  may  date  back  in  time  to  the  Miocene 
period,  when  the  viperine  form  existed — a  use  of 
the  tongue  common  to  all  ophidians  that  possess 
the  habit  of  exserting  and  vibrating  that  organ 
when  excited.  The  subject  is  somewhat  com- 
plicated, for  we  have  not  only  to  consider  the 
tongue,  but  the  whole  creature  of  which  the  tongue 
is  so  small  a  part;  its  singularity  and  anomalous 
position  in  nature,  and  the  many  and  diverse  ways 
in  which  the  animals  it  preys  on  are  affected  by 


144     THE  BOOK  OF  A  NATURALIST 

its  appearance.  Furthermore,  I  have  now  in  my 
mind  two  separate  functions,  the  first  of  which 
occasionally,  perhaps  often,  passes  into  and  becomes 
one  with  the  other. 

When  the  common  or  ring  snake  pursues  a  frog,, 
the  chase  would  in  most  cases  prove  a  very  vain 
one  but  for  that  fatal  weakness  in  the  hunted 
animal,  which  quickly  brings  its  superior  activity 
to  naught.  The  snake  need  not  even  be  seen  for 
the  effect  to  be  produced,  as  any  one  can  prove  for 
himself  by  pushing  his  walking-stick,  snake-wise, 
through  the  grass  and  causing  it  to  follow  up  the 
frog's  motions,  whereupon,  after  some  futile  efforts 
to  escape,  the  creature  collapses,  and  stretching  out 
its  fore-feet  like  arms  that  implore  mercy,  emits  a 
series  of  piteous,  wailing  screams.  Thus,  all  that 
is  necessary  for  this  end  to  be  reached  is  that  the 
frog  should  be  conscious  of  something,  no  matter 
what,  pushing  after  it  through  the  grass.  There  is 
here,  apart  from  the  question  in  animal  psychology, 
a  little  mystery  involved;  for  how  comes  it  that 
in  the  course  of  the  countless  generations  during 
which  the  snake  has  preyed  on  the  frog,  this 
peculiar  weakness  has  not  been  eliminated  by 
means  of  the  continual  destruction  of  the  in- 
dividuals most  subject  to  it,  and,  on  the  other 
hand,  the  preservation  of  all  those  possessing  it  in 
a  less  degree,  or  not  at  all?  It  is  hard  for  a  good 
Darwinian  to  believe  that  the  frog  is  excessively 
prolific  for  the  snake's  advantage  rather  than  for 
its   own.     But  this   question  need  not  detain   us; 


THE  SERPENT'S  TONGUE  145 

there  are  vulnerable  spots  and  weak  joints  in  the 
defensive  armour  of  all  animals.  What  I  wish  to 
draw  attention  to  is  the  fact  that,  speaking  meta- 
phorically, the  serpent,  of  all  creatures  that  kill 
their  own  meat,  is  the  most  unsportsmanlike  in  its 
methods,  that  it  has  found  out  and  subtly  taken 
advantage  of  the  most  secret  and  unsuspected 
weaknesses  of  the  animals  on  which  it  preys. 

We  have  seen  how  the  common  snake  catches 
the  frog;  but  frogs  are  found  only  in  wet  places, 
and  snakes  abound  everywhere,  and  the  sedentary 
snake  of  the  dry  uplands  must  feed  on  the  nimble 
rodent,  volatile  bird,  and  elusive  lizard.  How  does 
he  manage  to  catch  them?  For  considering  how 
alert  and  quick-sighted  these  small  hunted  creatures 
are,  it  must,  I  think,  be  assumed  that  the  snake 
cannot,  except  in  rare  instances,  approach  them 
unseen  and  take  them  unawares.  I  believe  that 
in  many  cases  the  snake  succeeds  by  approaching 
its  intended  victim  while  appearing  to  be  stationary. 
This  stratagem  is  not  confined  to  the  ophidians: 
in  a  somewhat  different  form  it  is  found  in  a  great 
variety  of  animals.  Perhaps  the  most  familiar 
example  is  afforded  by  the  widely  distributed 
hunting-spider.  The  plan  followed  by  this  spider, 
on  a  smooth  surface  where  it  cannot  hide  its  form, 
is  to  advance  boldly  towards  its  prey,  and  when 
the  fly,  who  has  been  suspiciously  watching  its 
approach,  is  about  to  dart  away,  to  become  motion- 
less. This  appears  to  excite  the  fly's  curiosity,  and 
he  does  not  take  flight;  but  very  soon  his  restive 


146    THE  BOOK  OF  A  NATURALIST 

spirit  returns,  he  moves  about  this  way  and  that, 
to  see  all  round  him,  and  each  time  he  turns  his 
bright  eyes  away  the  spider  rapidly  moves  a  little 
nearer;  but  when  the  fly  looks  again,  appears 
motionless  as  before.  In  this  way,  little  by  little, 
the  space  is  lessened,  and  yet  the  fly,  still  turning 
at  intervals  to  regard  the  suspicious-looking  object, 
does  not  make  his  escape,  simply  because  he  does 
not  know  that  the  space  has  been  lessened.  Seeing 
the  spider  always  motionless  the  illusion  is  pro- 
duced that  it  has  not  moved:  the  dividing  distance 
has  been  accurately  measured  once  for  all,  and  no 
second  act  of  judgement  is  required;  the  fly,  know- 
ing his  own  quickness  and  volatile  powers,  feels 
himself  perfectly  safe;  and  this  goes  on  until  by 
chance  he  detects  the  motion  and  instantly  flies 
away,  or  else  fails  to  detect  it  and  is  caught.  Cats 
often  succeed  in  capturing  birds  by  a  similar 
stratagem. 

The  snake,  unlike  the  spider  and  cat,  cannot 
make  the  final  spring  and  rush,  but  must  glide  up 
to  within  striking  distance:  this  he  is  able  to  do 
by  means  of  the  faculty  he  possesses  of  progressing 
so  gradually  and  evenly  as  to  appear  almost 
motionless;  the  tongue  which  he  exserts  and 
rapidly  vibrates  at  intervals  when  approaching  his 
victim  helps  in  producing  the  deception. 

Long  observation  has  convinced  me  that  a 
snake  on  the  ground,  moving  or  resting,  is  not  a 
sight  that  violently  excites  birds,  as  they  are 
excited  by  the  appearance  of  a   fox,   cat,  weasel. 


THE  SERPENT'S  TONGUE  147 

hawk,  or  any  other  creature  whose  enmity  is  well 
known  to  them.  I  have  frequently  seen  little  birds 
running  about  and  feeding  on  the  ground  within  a 
few  feet  of  a  snake  lying  conspicuously  in  their  sight ; 
furthermore,  I  have  been  convinced  on  such  occasions 
that  the  birds  knew  the  snake  was  there,  having 
observed  them  raise  their  heads  at  intervals,  regard 
the  reptile  for  a  few  moments  attentively,  then  go 
on  seeking  food.  This  shows  that  birds  do  some- 
times come  near  snakes  and  see  them  with  httle  or 
no  fear,  but  probably  with  some  slight  suspicion 
and  a  great  deal  of  curiosity,  on  account  of  the 
singularity  of  their  appearance,  their  resemblance 
to  vegetable  rather  than  to  animal  forms  of  life, 
and,  above  all,  to  their  strange  manner  of  pro- 
gression. Now  the  bird,  or  lizard,  or  small  mammal, 
thus  brought  by  chance  near  to  a  hungiy,  watchful 
snake,  once  it  begins  to  regard  the  snake  curiously, 
is  in  imminent  danger  of  destruction  in  one  of  two 
ways,  or  by  a  combination  of  both:  in  the  first 
case  it  may  be  deluded  as  to  the  distance  of  the 
suspicious-looking  object  and  in  the  end  seized, 
just  as  the  fly  is  seized  by  the  salticus  spider, 
before  it  can  make  its  escape;  secondly,  it  may, 
while  regarding  its  singular  enemy,  be  thrown 
into  a  trance  or  convulsive  fit  and  so  rendered 
powerless  to  escape,  or  it  may  even  be  moved  to 
cast  itself  into  the  open  jaws  of  the  snake.  In 
either  case,  the  serpent's  tongue  would,  I  believe, 
play  a  very  important  part.  In  a  case  of  the  first 
kind  the  snake  would  approach  its  intended  victim 


148    THE  BOOK  OF  A  NATURALIST 

so  slowly  and  continuously  as  almost  to  appear  not 
to  be  moving;  still,  in  most  cases  the  movement 
probably  would  be  detected  but  for  the  tongue, 
which  attracts  the  eye  by  its  eccentric  motions,  its 
sudden  successive  appearances  and  disappearances; 
watching  the  tongue,  the  long,  sinuous  body  slowly 
gliding  over  the  intervening  space  would  not  be 
observed;  only  the  statuesque  raised  head  and 
neck  would  be  visible,  and  these  would  appear  not 
to  move.  The  snake's  action  in  such  a  case  would 
resemble  the  photographer's  trick  to  make  a  restive 
child  sit  still  while  its  picture  is  being  taken  by 
directing  its  attention  to  some  curious  object,  or 
by  causing  a  pocket-handkerchief  to  flutter  above 
the  camera. 

Snakes  have  been  observed  to  steal  upon  their 
victims  in  this  quiet,  subtle  manner;  the  victim, 
bird  or  lizard,  has  been  observed  to  continue 
motionless  in  a  watchful  attitude,  as  if  ready  to 
dart  away,  but  still  attentively  regarding  the 
gradually  approaching  head  and  flickering  tongue; 
and  in  the  end,  by  a  sudden,  quick-darting  motion 
on  the  part  of  the  snake,  the  capture  has  been 
effected.  Cases  of  this  description  are  usually  set 
down  to  "  fascination,"  which  I  think  is  a  mistake. 

Fascination  is  a  fine  old  word,  which  has  done 
good  service  and  has  had  a  long  day  and  happily 
outlived  its  evil  repute:  but  it  had  its  faults  at 
the  best  of  times;  it  originally  expressed  things 
purely  himdan,  and  therefore  did  not  exactly  fit 
things  serpentine,  and   was,   to   some  extent,  mis- 


THE  SERPENT'S  TONGUE  149 

leading.  What  its  future  history  —  in  science — 
will  be  cannot  be  guessed.  In  France  it  has  been 
used  to  describe  a  mild  form  of  hypnotism  in- 
duced by  the  contemplation  of  a  bright  spot,  and 
no  doubt  there  would  be  a  certain  propriety  in 
applying  the  word  to  the  soothing  somnolent  effect 
produced  on  the  human  subject  by  the  revolving 
mirror  invented  by  Dr.  Luys.  But  this  is  not  the 
form  we  are  concerned  with.  Fascination  in 
serpent  life  is  something  very  different;  in  the 
present  state  of  knowledge  on  the  subject  the  old 
word  cannot  be  discarded.  We  are  now  in  pos- 
session of  a  very  large  number  of  well-authenticated 
cases  of  undoubted  fascination  in  which  the  victims 
are  seen  to  act  in  a  variety  of  ways,  but  all  alike 
exhibit  very  keen  distress.  The  animal  that  falls 
under  the  spell  appears  to  be  conscious  of  his  loss 
of  power,  as  in  the  case  of  the  frog  pursued  by  the 
ring-snake.  He  is  thrown  into  violent  convulsions, 
or  trembles,  or  screams,  or  struggles  to  escape,  and 
sometimes  rushes  in  terror  away  only  to  return 
again,  perhaps  in  the  end  to  jump  into  the  serpent's 
jaws.  A  brother  of  mine  once  observed  a  pipit 
running  with  flutterings  round  and  round  a  coiled 
snake,  uttering  distressed  chirps  and  cries;  the 
snake,  vibrating  its  tongue,  moved  its  head  round 
to  follow  the  motions  of  the  bird.  This  is  a  common 
form — the  desire  and  vaui  striving  to  escape.  But 
when  an  animal  is  seen  to  remain  motionless, 
showing  no  signs  of  distress  or  fear,  attentively 
regarding   the  gradually   approaching   snake,   such 


150    THE  BOOK  OF  A  NATURALIST 

a  case  cannot,  I  think,  be  safely  set  down  to  fascina- 
tion, nor  to  anything  more  out  of  the  common  than 
curiosity,  and,  as  in  the  case  of  the  volatile,  sprightly 
fly  and  terrestrial  spider,  to  the  illusion  produced 
in  the  victim's  mind  that  the  suspicious-looking 
object  is  stationary. 

Concerning  the  use,  here  suggested,  of  the 
tongue  in  fascination,  I  can  scarcely  expect  that 
those  whose  knowledge  of  the  snake  is  derived 
from  books,  from  specimens  in  museums,  and  from 
seeing  the  animal  alive  in  confinement,  will  regard 
it  as  anything  more  than  an  improbable  supposition, 
unsupported  by  facts.  But  to  those  who  have 
attentively  observed  the  creature  in  a  state  of 
nature,  and  have  been  drawn  to  it  by,  and  won- 
dered at,  its  strangeness,  the  explanation,  I  venture 
to  think,  will  not  seem  improbable.  To  weigh, 
count,  measure,  and  dissect  for  purposes  of 
identification,  classification,  and  what  not,  and  to 
search  in  bones  and  tissues  for  hidden  affinities,  it 
is  necessary  to  see  closely;  but  this  close  seeing 
would  be  out  of  place  and  a  hindrance  in  other 
lines  of  inquiry.  To  know  the  creature,  undivested 
of  life  or  liberty  or  of  anything  belonging  to  it,  it 
must  be  seen  with  an  atmosphere,  in  the  midst  of 
the  nature  in  which  it  harmoniously  moves  and  has 
its  being,  and  the  image  it  casts  on  the  observer's 
retina  and  mind  must  be  identical  with  its  image 
in  the  eye  and  mind  of  the  other  wild  creatures  that 
share  the  earth  with  it.  It  is  not  here  maintained 
that  the  tongue  is   everything,   nor  that   it  is   the 


THE  SERPENT'S  TONGUE  151 

principal  agent  in  fascination,  but  only  that  it  is 
a  necessary  part  of  the  creature,  and  of  the  creature's 
strangeness,  which  is  able  to  produce  so  great  and 
wonderful  an  effect.  The  long,  limbless  body, 
lithely  and  mysteriously  gliding  on  the  surface; 
the  glittering  scales  and  curious  mottlings,  bright 
or  lurid;  the  statuesque,  arrowy  head,  sharp-cut 
and  immovable;  the  round  lidless  eyes,  fixed  and 
brilHant;  and  the  long,  bifurcated  tongue,  shining 
black  or  crimson,  with  its  fantastic  flickering  play 
before  the  close-shut,  lipless  mouth — that  is  the 
serpent,  and  probably  no  single  detail  in  the  fateful 
creature's  appearance  could  be  omitted  and  the 
effect  of  its  presence  on  other  animals  be  the  same. 

When,  years  ago,  I  had  finished  writing  the 
above  paper,  which  appeared  later  in  the  Fort- 
nightly Review,  I  made  the  following  entry  in  my 
Diary,  and  reproduce  it  here  just  to  show  that  I 
am  not  apt  to  set  too  high  a  value  on  my  own 
theory. 

"  This  paper  was  not  too  long,  but  I'm  glad  it's 
finished  and  done  with.  Not  because  the  subject 
didn't  interest  me — on  the  contrary,  it  had  a 
tremendous  attraction  for  me — but  because,  having 
written  it,  a  difficulty  has  been  removed,  a  pain 
reheved,  a  want  satisfied.  True,  that  I've  only 
imagined  this  use  for  a  serpent's  tongue,  and  that 
it  may  not  be  the  true  use — if  any  use  there  be; 
but  if  we  have  a  need  to  build,  and  there  is  any 
wind  or  cloud  to  build  on,  'tis  best  to  go  on  bravely 


152     THE  BOOK  OF  A  NATURALIST 

with  the  building  business.  Who  cares  if  the 
structure  is  all  to  tumble  down  again?  Not  I. 
Nevertheless  the  mere  building  is  a  pleasure,  and 
the  completion  of  the  structure  a  satisfaction  in 
that  it  puts  something  where  before  there  was 
nothing.  The  speculative  soul  which  is  in  man 
abhors  the  desert,  vacant  spaces  and  waters  and 
islands  of  nothingness.  Thus,  to  illustrate  this 
little  thing  by  a  big  thing — the  little  flickering 
tongue  of  the  serpent  by  something  so  big  that  it 
fills  the  entire  universe — the  existence  of  an  ethereal 
medium  is  possibly  no  more  than  a  figment  of  the 
mind,  an  invention  to  get  us  out  of  a  difficulty, 
or  a  *  purely  hypothetical  supposition,'  as  was 
boldly  said  by  one  of  our  greatest  physicists.  At 
all  events,  a  lady  lean  and  pale  who  came  at  our 
call,  tottering  forth  wrapped  in  a  gauzy  veil — 
surely  the  most  attenuated  and  shadowy  of  all  the 
daughters  of  Old  Father  Speculation.  But  having 
got  her  in  our  arms,  thin  and  pale  though  she  be, 
we  imagine  her  beautiful  and  love  her  dearly,  and 
rest  satisfied  with  the  breasts  of  her  consolations, 
albeit  they  are  of  no  more  substance  than  thistle- 
down." 


XV 

THE  SERPENT'S  STRANGENESS 

The  following  passages  from  the  Queen  of  the  Air, 
which  refer  to  the  serpent  myth  and  the  serpent's 
strange  appearance  and  manner  of  progression, 
have,  apart  from  their  exceeding  beauty,  a  very 
special  bearing  on  the  subject  of  this  paper.  And 
in  quoting  them  I  am  only  following  Ruskin's  own 
plan,  when,  in  his  lectures  on  Natural  History  at 
Oxford,  he  considered  in  each  case,  first,  what  had 
been  "  beautifully  thought  about  the  creature." 
It  would  be  hard,  I  imagine,  to  find  a  passage  of 
greater  beauty  on  this  subject  than  Ruskin's  own, 
unless  it  be  that  famous  fragment  concerning  the 
divine  nature  of  the  serpent  and  the  serpent  tribe 
from  Sanchoniathan  the  Phoenician,  who  flourished 
some  thirty  centuries  ago.  It  is  true  that  among 
the  learned  some  hold  that  he  never  flourished  at 
all,  nor  existed;  but  doctors  disagree  on  that  point; 
and,  in  any  case,  the  fragment  exists,  and  was  most 
certainly  written  by  some  one. 
Ruskin  writes: 

Next,  in  the  serpent  we  approach  the  source  of  a  group  of 
myths,  world-wide,  founded  on  great  and  common  hrnnan 
163 


154     THE  BOOK  OF  A  NATURALIST 

instincts.  .  .  .  There  are  such  things  as  natural  myths 
.  .  .  the  dark  sayings  of  men  may  be  difficult  to  read,  and 
not  always  worth  reading;  but  the  dark  sayings  of  nature 
will  probably  become  clearer  for  the  looking  into,  and  will 
very  certainly  be  worth  reading.  And,  indeed,  all  guidance 
to  the  right  sense  of  the  human  and  variable  myths  will 
probably  depend  on  our  first  getting  at  the  sense  of  the 
natural  and  invariable  ones.  ...  Is  there  indeed  no 
tongue,  except  the  mute  forked  flash  from  its  lips,  in  that 
ininning  brook  of  horror  on  the  ground.''  Why  that  horror? 
We  all  feel  it,  yet  how  imaginative  it  is,  how  dispropor- 
tioned  to  the  real  strength  of  the  creature !  .  .  .  But 
that  horror  is  of  the  myth,  not  of  the  creature ;  .  .  .it 
is  the  strength  of  the  base  element  that  is  so  dreadful  in 
the  serpent;  it  is  the  omnipotence  of  the  earth.  ...  It 
is  a  divine  hieroglyph  of  the  demoniac  power  of  the  earth, 
of  the  entire  earthly  nature. 

Of  the  animal's  motions  he  says: 

That  rivulet  of  smooth  silver — how  does  it  flow,  think 
you,'^  It  literally  rows  on  the  earth,  with  every  scale  for 
an  oar;  it  bites  the  dust  with  the  ridges  of  its  body. 
Watch  it  when  it  moves  slowly ;  a  wave,  but,  without 
wind !  a  current,  but  with  no  fall !  all  the  body  moving 
at  the  same  instant,  yet  some  of  it  to  one  side,  some  to 
another,  and  some  forward,  and  the  rest  of  the  coil  back- 
wards ;  but  all  with  the  same  calm  will  and  equal  way 
— no  contraction,  no  extension;  one  soundless,  causeless 
march  of  sequent  rings,  a  spectral  procession  of  spotted 
dust,  with  dissolution  in  its  fangs,  dislocation  in  its  coils. 
Startle  it :  the  winding  stream  will  become  a  twisted 
arrow;  the  wave  of  poisoned  life  will  lash  through  the 
grass  like  a  cast  lance. 

He  adds:  "I  cannot  understand  this  forward 
motion  of  the  snake,"  which  is  not  strange,  seeing 
that  Solomon,  the  wise  man,  found  in  "  the  way  of 
a  serpent  upon  a  rock  "  one  of  the  three  wonderful 


THE  SERPENT'S  STRANGENESS    155 

things  that  baffled  his  intellect.  And  before 
Solomon,  the  old  Phoenician  wrote  that  Taautus 
esteemed  the  serpent  as  the  most  inspired  of  all 
the  reptiles,  and  of  a  fiery  nature,  inasmuch  as  it 
exhibits  an  incredible  celerity,  moving  by  its  spirit 
wivliout  either  hands  or  feet.  Thanks  to  modern 
anatomists,  this  thing  is  no  longer  a  puzzle  to  us; 
but  with  the  mere  mechanical  question  we  are  not 
concerned  in  this  place,  but  only  with  the  sense  of 
wonder  and  mystery  produced  in  the  mind  by  the 
apparently  "  causeless  march   of  sequent  rings." 

From  English  Coniston,  where  snakes  are  few 
and  diminutive,  let  us  go  to  the  pine  forest  of  the 
new  world,  where  dwells  the  famous  Pituophis 
melanoleucus,  the  serpent  of  the  pines.  This  is  the 
largest,  most  active  and  beautiful  of  the  North 
American  ophidians,  attaining  a  length  of  ten  to 
twelve  feet,  and  arrayed  in  a  "  bright  coat  of  soft 
creamy-white,  upon  which  are  laid,  much  in  the 
Dolly  Varden  mode,  shining  blotches  or  mottlings, 
which  beginning  at  the  neck  are  of  an  intensely 
dark  brown  or  chocolate  colour,  but  which  towards 
the  tail  lighten  into  a  pale  chestnut."  A  local 
Ruskin,  the  Rev.  Samuel  Lockwood,  a  lover  of 
snakes,  kept  some  of  these  reptiles  in  his  house, 
and  referring  to  their  wonderful  muscular  feats,  he 
writes  as  follows: 


Owing  to  this  command  of  the  muscles  the  pine  snake 
is  capable  of  performing  some  evolutions  which  are  not 
only  beautiful,  but  so  intricate  and  delicate  as  to  make 
them   seem  imbued  with   the  nature   we  call   spiritual.      I 


156    THE  BOOK  OF  A  NATURALIST 

have  often  seen  the  Pituophis,  spread  out  in  loose  coils 
with  its  head  in  the  central  one,  wake  up  after  a  long 
repose  and  begin  a  movement  in  every  curve,  the  entire 
body  engaged  in  the  mazy  movements,  with  no  going  out 
or  deviation  from  the  complicated  pattern  marked  on  the 
floor.  Observing  this  intricate  harmoniousness  of  move- 
ment, I  thought  of  the  seer's  vision  of  mystic  wheels. 
Those  revolving  coils — "  and  their  appearance  and  their 
work  was  as  if  it  were  a  wheel  in  the  middle  of  a  wheel."  .  .  . 
The  movements  of  a  serpent  are  never  started,  rope-like, 
at  one  end,  and  then  transmitted  to  the  other ;  nor  is  the 
movement  like  the  force-waves  sent  through  a  ribbon 
vibrating  in  the  air.  The  movement  consists  of  numberless 
units  of  individual  activities,  all  regulated  by  and  under 
control  of  one  individual  will  that  is  felt  in  every  curve 
and  line.  There  is  some  likeness  to  the  thousand  personal 
activities  of  a  regiment  seen  on  their  winding  way.  And 
all  this  perfection  of  control  of  so  many  complicated 
activities  is  true,  whether  the  serpent,  like  an  ogre,  be 
crushing  its  victim's  bones,  or,  as  a  limbless  posturist,  be 
going  through  its  inimitable  evolutions.  In  our  thinking 
a  serpent  ranks  as  a  paradox  among  animals.  There  is  so 
much  seeming  contradiction.  At  one  time  encircling  its 
prey  as  in  iron  bands ;  again  assuming  the  immovable 
posturing  of  a  statue ;  then  melting  into  movements  so 
intricate  and  delicate  that  the  lithe  limbless  thing  looks 
like  gossamer  incarnate.  In  this  creature  all  the  unities 
seem  to  be  set  aside.  Such  weakness  and  such  strength; 
such  gentleness  and  such  vindictiveness ;  so  much  of 
beauty  and  yet  so  repulsive ;  fascination  and  terror : 
what  need  to  wonder  that,  whether  snake  or  python,  the 
serpent  should  so  figure  in  the  myths  of  all  ages  and  the 
literature  of  the  whole  world!  Yes,  in  the  best  and  worst 
thinkings  of  man! 


In  the  literature  of  the  whole  world,  true;  but 
let  no  one  run  away  with  the  idea  that  gems  of 
this  kind  are  to  be  picked  up  anywhere,  and  go 


THE  SERPENT'S  STRANGENESS    157 

out  to  seek  for  them,  since  for  every  one  equalling 
these  in  lustre  he  will  burden  himself  with  many  a 
bushel  of  common  pebbles. 

Lockwood  called  to  mind  the  mystic  wheels  in 
Ezekiel's  splendid  imaginings — "  for  the  spirit  of 
the  living  creature  was  in  the  wheels."  His  lissom 
beautiful  captive  might  also  have  been  likened  to 
Shelle^^'s  dream-serpent  in  the  Witch  of  Atlas — 

In  the  flame 
Of  its  own  volumes  intervolved. 

He  had  abundant  reason  to  admire  the  creature's 

intricate  and  delicate  movements  when  it  appeared 

like  "  gossamer  incarnate,"   after  having  witnessed 

its  motions  of  another  kind,  and  its  deadly  power. 

He  had  seen  it  lying  extended,  apparently  asleep, 

on  the  floor  of  its  box,  when  a  rat,  which  had  been 

placed  with  it,  ran  over  it,  but  not  quite  over  it, 

for,  quick  as  lightning,  it  had  wound  itself  round 

the   rat's  body,   coil   over  coil,   like   hand  grasping 

hand  in  squeezing  a  lemon,  until  the  bones  of  the 

constricted    animal    cracked    audibly;    then    it    was 

dropped,   dead   and   crushed   and   limp,    on   to   the 

floor;     and     the     serpent,     having     revenged     the 

indignity,    resumed    its    interrupted    repose.      With 

this  lightning-like  deadly  quickness  of  motion  and 

the    melting   mazy    evolutions    at   the    other    times, 

he  also  contrasted  its  statue-like  immobility,  when, 

with  head  raised  high  and  projecting  forwards,  it 

would   actually  remain   for  hours   at  a  stretch,   its 

brilliant  eyes  fixed  on  some  object  that  had  alarmed 

it  or  excited  its  curiosity. 


158     THE  BOOK  OF  A  NATURALIST 

This  power  of  continuing  motionless,  with  the 
lifted  head  projecting  forwards,  for  an  indefinite 
time,  is  one  of  the  most  wonderful  of  the  serpent's 
muscular  feats,  and  is  of  the  highest  importance 
to  the  animal  both  when  fascinating  its  victim  and 
when  mimicking  some  inanimate  object,  as,  for 
instance,  the  stem  and  bud  of  an  aquatic  plant; 
here  it  is  only  referred  to  on  account  of  the  effect 
it  produces  on  the  human  mind,  as  enhancing  the 
serpent's  strangeness.  In  this  attitude,  with  the 
round,  unwinking  eyes  fixed  on  the  beholder's  face, 
the  effect  may  be  very  curious  and  uncanny. 
Ernest  Glanville,  a  South  African  writer,  thus 
describes  his  own  experience.  When  a  boy  he 
frequently  went  out  into  the  bush  in  quest  of 
game,  and  on  one  of  these  solitary  excursions  he 
sat  down  to  rest  in  the  shade  of  a  willow  on  the 
bank  of  a  shallow  stream;  sitting  there,  with 
cheek  resting  on  his  hand,  he  fell  into  a  boyish 
reverie.  After  some  time  he  became  aware  in  a 
vague  way  that  on  the  white  sandy  bottom  of  the 
stream  there  was  stretched  a  long  black  line  which 
had  not  been  there  at  first.  He  continued  for  some 
time  regarding  it  without  recognising  what  it  was; 
but  all  at  once,  with  an  inward  shock,  became  fully 
conscious  that  he  was  looking  at  a  large  snake. 

Presently,  without  apparent  motion,  so  softly  and 
silently  was  it  done,  the  snake  reared  its  head  above  the 
surface  and  held  it  there,  erect  and  still,  with  gleaming 
eyes  fixed  on  me  in  question  of  what  I  was.  It  flashed 
upon  me  then  that  it  would  be  a  good  opportunity  to  test 
the  power  of  the  human  eye  on  a  snake,  and  I  set  myself 


THE  SERPENT'S  STRANGENESS    159 

the  task  of  looking  it  down.  It  was  a  foolish  effort.  The 
bronze  head  and  sinewy  neck,  about  which  the  water 
flowed  without  a  ripple,  were  as  it  carved  in  stone,  and  the 
cruel  unwinking  eyes,  with  the  light  coming  and  going  in 
them,  appeared  to  glow  the  brighter  the  longer  I  looked. 
Gradually  there  came  over  me  a  sensation  of  sickening 
fear,  which,  if  I  had  yielded  to  it,  would  have  left  me 
powerless  to  move;  but  with  a  cry  I  leapt  up,  and,  seizing 
a  fallen  willow  branch,  attacked  the  reptile  with  a  species 
of  fury.  ,  .  .  Probably  the  idea  of  the  Icanti  originated  in 
a  similar  experience  of  some  native. 

The  Icanti,  it  must  be  explained,  is  a  powerful 
and  malignant  being  that  takes  the  form  of  a  great 
serpent,  and  lies  at  night  in  some  deep  dark  pool; 
and  should  a  man  incautiously  approach  and  look 
down  into  the  water  he  would  be  held  there  by  the 
power  of  the  great  gleaming  eyes,  and  finally  drawn 
down  against  his  will,  powerless  and  speechless,  to 
disappear  for  ever  in  the  black  depths. 

Not  less  strange  than  this  statue-like  immobility 
of  the  serpent,  the  effect  of  which  is  increased  and 
made  more  mysterious  by  the  flickering  lambent 
tongue,  suddenly  appearing  at  intervals  like  light- 
ning playing  on  the  edge  of  an  unmoving  cloud,  is 
that  kind  of  progressive  motion  so  even  and  slow 
as  to  be  scarcely  perceptible.  But  on  this  and 
other  points  relating  to  the  serpent's  strangeness  I 
have  spoken  in  the  preceding  chapter.  Even  in 
our  conditions  of  self-absorption  and  aloofness — 
the  mental  habit  of  regarding  nature  as  something 
outside  of  ourselves  and  interesting  only  to  men 
of  curious  minds — this  quality  of  the  serpent  is 
yet  able  to  affect  us  powerfully.     How  great  was 


160    THE  BOOK  OF  A  NATURALIST 

its  effect  on  the  earlier  races,  and  what  great 
things  resulted  from  it,  when  the  floating  scattered 
threads  of  all  strange  sensations  and  experiences, 
all  unaccountable  things,  were  gathered  and  woven 
into  the  many-coloured  and  quaintly  figured  cloth 
of  religion,  anthropology  has  for  some  time  past 
been  engaged  in  telling  us. 

We  have  seen  in  the  history  of  palaeontology 
that,  when  the  fossil  remains  of  some  long-extinct 
animal  have  been  discovered,  in  some  district  still 
perhaps  inhabited  by  one  or  more  representatives 
of  archaic  form,  naturalists  have  concluded  that  the 
type  was  peculiar  to  the  district;  but  subsequently 
fresh  remains  have  been  discovered  in  other  widely 
separated  districts,  and  then  others,  until  it  has 
been  established  that  the  type  once  supposed  local 
has,  at  one  time  or  another,  ranged  over  a  very 
large  portion  of  the  habitable  globe.  Something 
similar  has  been  the  case  in  the  extension  of  the 
area  over  which  evidences  of  serpent-worship  have 
been  brought  to  light  by  inquiries  into  the  early 
history  of  mankind.  It  had  existed  in  Phoenicia, 
India,  Babylonia,  and,  in  a  mild  form,  in  Greece 
and  Italy  in  Europe;  Persia  was  added,  and,  little 
by  little,  Cashmir,  Cambodia,  Thibet,  China,  Ceylon, 
the  Kalmucks;  in  Lithuania  it  was  universal;  it 
was  found  in  Madagascar  and  Abyssinia;  the  area 
over  which  it  once  flourished  or  still  flourishes  in 
Africa  grows  wider  and  wider,  and  promises  to  take 
in  the  entire  continent;  across  the  Atlantic  it 
extended  over  a  greater  part  of  North,  Central,  and 


THE  SERPENT'S  STRANGENESS    161 

South  America,  and  exists  still  among  some  tribes, 
as  it  still  does  in  Egypt,  India,  and  China.  Mean- 
while the  area  over  which  it  once  held  sway  in 
Europe  has  also  been  extended;  among  those  who 
once  regarded  the  serpent  as  a  sacred  animal  we 
now  include  the  Goths,  British  Celts,  Scandinavians, 
Esthonians,  and  Finns.  It  would  no  longer  be  rash 
to  say  that  in  every  part  of  the  earth  inhabited  by 
the  serpent  this  animal  has  at  one  time  or  other  been 
reverenced  by  man. 

Into  the  subject  of  serpent  -  worship,  about 
which  scores  of  books  and  hundreds  of  papers 
have  been  written,  I  do  not  wish  to  go  one  step 
further  than  I  am  compelled  by  my  theme,  which 
is,  primarily,  the  serpent,  and  the  effect  on  the 
human  intelhgence  of  its  unique  appearance  and 
faculties.  At  the  same  time  the  two  matters  are  so 
closely  connected  that  we  cannot  treat  of  one 
without  touching  on  the  other.  We  find  that  the 
authorities  are  divided  in  their  opinions  as  to  the 
origin  of  this  kind  of  worship,  some  holding  that  it 
had  its  rise  in  one  centre — Furgusson  goes  so  far 
as  to  give  the  precise  spot — from  which  it  spread 
to  other  regions  and  eventually  over  the  earth; 
others,  on  the  contrary,  believe  that  it  sprang  up 
spontaneously  in  many  places  and  at  different 
periods. 

The  solution  of  this  question  is,  I  believe,  to  be 
found  in  ourselves — in  the  effect  of  the  serpent  on 
us.  Much  is  to  be  gained  by  personal  experience 
and  observation,  and  by  close  attention  to  our  own 


162    THE  BOOK  OF  A  NATURALIST 

sensations.  Just  as  the  individual  who  has  passed 
the  middle  period  of  life,  or  attained  to  old  age,  has 
outlived  many  conditions  of  mind  and  body  so 
different  and  distinct  that  when  recalled  they  seem 
to  represent  separate  identities,  and  yet  has  pre- 
served within  himself  something  of  them  all — of 
adolescence,  of  boyhood,  even  of  childhood  and 
infancy — an  ineradicable  something  corresponding 
to  the  image,  bright  or  dim,  existing  in  his  memory; 
so  do  we  inherit  and  retain  something  of  our  for- 
gotten progenitors,  the  old  emotions  and  obsolete 
modes  of  thought  of  races  that  have  preceded  us 
by  centuries  and  by  thousands  of  years. 

In  the  next  chapter,  dealing  with  the  subject  of 
man's  irrational  enmity  to  the  serpent,  there  will 
be  more  said  on  this  subject;  nevertheless,  at  the 
risk  of  some  overlapping,  I  must  in  this  place  dwell 
a  little  on  my  own  early  experiences,  which  serve 
to  illustrate  the  familiar  biological  doctrine  that 
the  ancient,  outlived  characters  of  the  organism  tend 
to  reappear  for  a  season  in  its  young.  The  mental 
stripes  on  the  human  whelp  are  very  perceptible. 
From  an  aesthetic,  that  is,  our  aesthetic,  point  of 
view,  there  is  not  much  to  choose  between  an 
English  infant,  whether  of  aristocratic  or  plebeian 
descent,  and  a  Maori,  Patagonian,  Japanese,  or 
Greenland  infant.  The  Greenland  infant  might  be 
the  fattest — I  do  not  know.  After  the  features 
and  expression  change,  when  infancy  and  early 
childhood  is  past,  they  are  still  alike  in  mind.  The 
similarity  of  all  children  all  the  world  over  some- 


THE  SERPENT'S  STRANGENESS    163 

times  strikes  us  very  forcibly.  One  day  I  stood 
watching  a  group  of  a  dozen  children  playing  in  a 
small  open  green  space  in  London;  its  openness  to 
the  sky  and  the  green,  elastic  turf  under  their  feet 
had  suddenly  made  them  mad  with  joy.  Watching 
them  I  could  not  help  laughing  when  all  at  once 
I  remembered  having  once  watched  a  group  of 
children  of  about  the  same  size  as  these  on  a  spot 
of  green  turf  in  a  distant  region,  playing  the  same 
rude  game  in  the  same  way,  with  the  same  shrill, 
excited  cries;  and  these  were  children  of  un- 
adulterated savages — the  nomad  Tehuelches  of 
Patagonia!  In  some  savage  tribes  the  adults  are 
invariably  of  a  gloomy,  taciturn  disposition — the 
"  buoyant  child  surviving  in  the  man "  would  be 
as  astonishing  a  phenomenon  to  them  as  a  fellow- 
creature  with  the  melodious  throat  of  a  Rubini, 
or  a  pair  of  purple  wings  on  his  shoulders.  The 
children  of  these  people  sit  silent  and  unsmiling 
among  their  elders  in  the  house,  as  if  the  burden 
of  eternal  care  had  been  inherited  by  them  from 
birth;  but  every  day  the  grave  young  monkeys 
find  a  chance  to  steal  off,  and  when  they  have  got 
to  some  secluded  spot  in  the  woods,  out  of  earshot 
of  the  village,  a  sudden  transformation  takes 
place:  they  are  out  of  school,  and  as  merry  and 
shrill  at  their  games  and  mock  battles  as  any 
rough  set  of  urchins  just  released  from  their  lessons 
in  our  own  land. 

Many  pages  might  be  filled  with  similar  instances. 
And  when  we  consider  what  the  law  is,  and  that 


164    THE  BOOK  OF  A  NATURALIST 

the  period  during  which  the  human  species  has 
existed  in  any  kind  of  civilisation,  making  its  own 
conditions,  is  but  a  span  compared  with  its  long 
life  of  simple  barbarism,  it  would  be  strange  indeed 
if  we  did  not  find  in  the  civilised  child  the 
psychological  representative  of  primitive  man.  We 
do  not  look  for  the  emotions  and  inherited  or 
traditional  habits  proper  to  the  adult.  The  higher 
mental  faculties,  which  have  had  their  growth  in  a 
developed  social  state,  are  latent  in  him.  His 
senses  and  lower  mental  faculties  are,  on  the  con- 
trary, at  their  best:  in  the  acuteness  of  his  senses, 
and  the  vividness  and  durability  of  the  impressions 
made  on  him  by  external  stimuli;  in  his  nearness 
to  or  oneness  with  Nature,  resulting  from  his 
mythical  faculty,  and  in  the  quick  response  of  the 
organism  to  every  outward  change,  he  is  like  the 
animals.  His  world  is  small,  but  the  bright  mirror 
of  his  mind  has  reflected  it  so  clearly,  with  all  it 
contains,  from  sun  and  stars  and  floating  clouds 
above,  to  the  floating  motes  in  the  beam,  and  the 
grass  blades  and  fine  grains  of  yellow  sand  he 
treads  upon,  that  he  knows  it  as  intimately  as  if 
he  had  existed  in  it  for  a  thousand  years.  And 
whatever  is  rare  and  strange,  or  outside  of  Nature's 
usual  order,  and  opposed  to  his  experience,  affects 
him  powerfully  and  excites  the  sense  of  mystery, 
which  remains  thereafter  associated  with  the  object. 
I  remember  that  as  a  child,  or  small  boy,  I  was 
affected  in  this  way  on  seeing  mushrooms  growing 
in  a  chain  of  huge  rings  in  a  meadow;  also  by  the 


THE  SERPENT'S  STRANGENESS    165 

sensitive-plant,  when  I  saw  it  shrink  and  grow  pale 
at  the  touch  of  my  fingerj.  Other  plants  and 
flowers  have  affected  me  with  a  sense  of  mystery 
in  the  same  way;  and  throughout  the  world, 
among  inferior  or  savage  races,  plants  of  strange 
forms  are  often  regarded  with  superstitious  fear 
or  veneration.  Something  of  this — the  mythical 
faculty  of  the  primitive  man  and  of  the  child — 
remains  in  all  of  us,  even  the  most  intellectual. 
There  is  a  story  told  of  an  atheist  who,  coming 
from  an  orchid  show,  said  that  he  had  been  con- 
verted to  behef  in  the  existence  of  a  devil.  A 
feeling,  about  which  he  probably  knew  little,  was 
father  to  the  witticism. 

To  pass  from  plants  to  animals.  As  a  child  I 
was  powerfully  moved  at  my  first  meeting  with  a 
large  owl.  I  was  exploring  a  dimly  lighted  loft 
in  a  barn,  when,  peering  into  an  empty  cask,  I 
met  its  eyes  fixed  on  mine — a  strange  monster  of 
a  bird  with  fluffed,  tawny  plumage,  barred  and 
spotted  with  black,  and  a  circular,  pale-coloured 
face,  and  set  in  it  a  pair  of  great  luminous  yellow 
eyes!  My  nerves  tingled  and  my  hair  stood  up 
as  if  I  had  received  an  electric  shock.  Recalling 
this  experience,  the  vividness  of  the  image  printed 
on  my  mind,  and  the  sense  of  mystery  so  long 
afterwards  associated  with  this  bird,  it  does  not 
seem  strange  that  among  all  races  in  all  parts  of 
the  globe  it  should  have  been  regarded  as  some- 
thing more  than  a  bird,  and  supernatural  —  a 
wise  being,  something  evil  and  ghostly,  a  messenger 


166    THE  BOOK  OF  A  NATURALIST 

from  spirit-land,  and  prophet  of  death  and  disaster; 
a  httle  sister  or  some  other  relation  of  the  devil; 
and  finally  the  devil  himself;  also,  as  in  Samoa, 
a  god  incarnate.  Its  voice,  as  well  as  its  strange 
appearance,  had  doubtless  much  to  do  with  the 
owl's  supernatural  reputation.  The  owl  is  first, 
but  only  one,  of  a  legion  of  feathered  demons, 
ghosts,  witches,  and  other  unearthly  beings,  usually 
nocturnal  birds  with  cries  and  notes  that  resemble 
the  human  voice  expressing  physical  agony, 
incurable  grief,  despair  and  frenzy,  always  with 
something  aerial  and  ventriloquial  in  it,  heighten- 
ing its  mysterious  and  terrible  character;  and  the 
birds  that  emit  these  sounds  are  of  many  families 
— night- jars,  herons,  rails,  curlews,  grebes,  loons, 
and  others. 

But  great  as  the  owl  is  among  birds  that  have 
been  regarded  as  supernatural,  or  in  league  with 
the  unseen  powers,  it  has  never  risen  to  the  height 
of  the  serpent  in  this  respect:  it  had  only  its 
strange  appearance,  silent  flight,  and  weird  voice; 
the  serpent  had  many  and  more  impressive  qualities. 
First  and  foremost  is  the  strength  and  lastingness 
of  the  impression  produced  by  its  strangeness,  and 
its  beautiful,  infinitely  varied,  and,  to  the  un- 
scientific mind,  causeless  motions;  its  spectre-like 
silence  and  subtlety;  its  infinite  patience  and 
watchfulness,  and  its  power  to  continue  with  raised 
head  and  neck  rigid  as  if  frozen  to  stone  for  a  long 
period;  and  its  wonderful  quietude  when  lying 
day  after  day  in  sun  or  shade  on  the  same  spot,  as 


THE  SERPENT'S  STRANGENESS    167 

if  in  a  deep  perpetual  sleep,  yet  eternally  awake, 
with  open  brilliant  eyes  fixed  on  whosoever  re- 
gards it.  A  sense  of  mystery  becomes  insepar- 
ably associated  with  its  ^appearance;  and  when 
habitually  regarded  with  such  a  feeling,  other 
qualities  and  faculties  possessed  by  it  would  seem 
in  harmony  with  this  strangeness,  and  outside  of 
the  common  order  of  nature: — its  periodical  re- 
newal of  youth;  the  power  of  existing  without 
ailment  and  with  no  sensible  diminution  of  vigour 
for  an  indefinite  time;  the  faculty  of  fascination 
— a  miraculous  power  over  the  ordinary  lower 
animals;  and  the  deadliness  which  its  venom  and 
the  lightning-like  swiftness  of  its  stroke  give  it, 
and  which  is  never  exercised  against  man  except 
in  revenge  for  an  insult  or  injury.  To  this  in- 
offensiveness  of  the  lethal  serpent,  together  with 
its  habit  of  attaching  itself  to  human  habitations, 
about  which  it  glides  in  a  ghostly  manner,  may  be 
traced  the  notion  of  its  friendliness  and  guardian- 
ship and  of  its  supernatural  power  and  wisdom; 
the  belief  that  it  was  a  reincarnation  of  a  dead 
man's  soul,  a  messenger  from  the  gods,  and,  finally, 
the  Agathodaemon  of  so  many  lands  and  so  many 
races  of  men. 

The  serpent's  strangeness  and  serpent-worship 
are  thus  seen  as  cause  and  effect.  Now,  there  is 
another  effect,  or  another  subject,  so  mixed  up 
with  the  one  I  have  been  considering  that  this 
paper  might  appear  incomplete  without  some  notice 
of  it — I  refer  to  the  widely  prevalent  behef  in  the 


168    THE  BOOK  OF  A  NATURALIST 

existence  of  serpents  of  vast  size  and  supernatural 
powers;  in  many  cases  the  daemons  or  guardian 
spirits  of  rivers,  lakes,  and  mountains.  Given  the 
profound  veneration  for  the  natural  serpent,  and 
the  mental  condition  in  which  the  mythical  faculty 
is  very  strong,  men  would  scarcely  fail  to  see  such 
monsters  in  certain  aspects  of  Nature  coinciding 
with  certain  mental  moods;  and  that  which  any 
person  saw,  and  gave  an  account  of,  as  he  would 
have  done  of  a  singular  tree,  rock,  or  cloud  which 
he  had  seen,  the  others  would  believe  in;  and 
believing,  they  would  expect  to  see  it  also;  and 
with  this  expectation  exciting  them,  when  the 
right  mood  and  aspect  came  they  probably  would 
see  it. 

Even  to  our  purged  and  purified  vision  Nature 
is  full  of  suggestions  of  the  serpent — that  is,  to 
those  who  are  familiar  with  the  serpent's  form  and 
have  been  strongly  impressed  with  its  strangeness. 
Ruskin  has  called  the  serpent  a  "  living  wave,"  and 
compares  it  in  motion  to  a  "  wave  without  wind." 
In  many  of  its  aspects  the  sea  is  serpent -like ; 
never  more  so  than  when  the  tide  rises  on  a  calm 
day,  when  wave  succeeds  to  wave,  lifting  itself  up 
serpentwise,  gliding  noiselessly  and  mysteriously 
shorewards,  to  break  in  foam  on  the  low  beach  and 
withdraw  with  a  prolonged  hissing  sound  to  the 
deep.  Again,  he  has  compared  the  serpent  in 
motion  to  a  "  current  without  a  fall."  Before  I 
had  read  of  Ruskin,  or  knew  his  name,  the  swift 
current  of  a  shallow  stream  had  reminded  me  on 


THE  SERPENT'S  STRANGENESS    169 

numberless  occasions  of  a  serpent  in  rapid  motion. 
When  rushing  away  at  its  greatest  speed,  the 
creature,  as  one  looks  down  on  it,  changes  its 
appearance  from  a  narrow  body  moving  in  a 
sinuous  line  to  a  broad  straight  band,  the  outward 
and  inward  curves  of  the  body  appearing  as  curved 
lines  on  its  surface,  and  the  spots  and  blotches  of 
colour  forming  the  pattern  as  shorter  lines.  The 
shallow  pebbly  current  shows  a  similar  pattern  on 
its  swiftly  moving  surface,  the  ripples  appearing  as 
light  and  dark  slanting  lines  that  intersect,  cross, 
and  mingle  with  each  other. 

Viewed  from  an  elevation,  all  rivers  winding 
through  the  lower  levels,  glistening  amidst  the 
greens  and  greys  and  browns  of  earth,  suggest  the 
serpent  form  and  appear  like  endless  serpents 
lying  across  the  world.  Probably  it  is  this  con- 
figuration and  shining  quality  of  rivers,  as  well  as 
the  even,  noiseless  motion  of  flowing  water,  which 
has  given  rise  to  the  belief  among  many  savage 
tribes  of  huge  water-serpents,  hke  that  of  the 
stupendous  Mother  of  the  Waters,  supposed  to  lie 
extended  at  the  bottom  of  the  Amazon,  Orinoco, 
and  other  great  rivers  of  tropical  South  America. 
The  river  boa  of  these  regions  is  probably  the 
largest  existing  serpent  on  the  globe,  but  it  is  a 
siTall  creature  to  the  fabled  monster  that  rests 
beieath  the  flood — so  small  comparatively  that  it 
might  well  be  regarded  as  one  of  the  unseen 
monster's  newly  born  young. 

There  is  also   something  in  the  hypnotic  effect 


170    THE  BOOK  OF  A  NATURALIST 

produced  by  deep  clear  water  when  gazed  on 
steadily  and  for  a  long  time  which  may  have  given 
rise  to  the  African  superstition  of  the  Icanti  already 
mentioned.  Among  some  North  American  tribes 
there  also  existed  a  belief  in  a  serpent  of  enormous 
size  that  reposed  at  the  bottom  of  some  river  or 
lake,  and  once  every  year  rose  to  the  surface  showing 
a  shining  splendid  stone  on  his  head. 

The  mountains,  too,  have  their  serpent-shaped 
guardians:  thus,  it  was  believed  by  the  neig^i- 
bouring  tribes  that  a  huge  camoodi,  or  boa,  rested 
its  league-long  coils  on  the  flat  top  of  the  table 
mountain  of  Roraima  in  Venezuela.  Doubtless  a 
serpent  of  cloud  and  mist;  of  the  white  vapour 
that,  forming  at  the  summit,  dropped  down  in  a 
long  coil,  or  crept  earthwards  along  the  deep 
fissures  that  score  the  precipitous  sides. 

Other  beliefs  of  this  kind  might  be  adduced, 
and  other  resemblances  to  the  serpent's  form  and 
motion  in  nature  traced,  but  enough  on  this  point 
has  been  said.  If  it  is  due  to  these  resemblances 
that  the  savage  is  disposed  to  see  the  life  and 
intelligent  spirit  he  attributes  to  Nature,  and  to  all 
natural  objects,  take  the  serpent  form,  may  we 
not  believe  that  the  serpent-myths  of  the  earher 
civilised  races  originated  in  the  same  way?  Doubt- 
less in  many  cases,  with  the  development  of  i\e 
reasoning  powers  and  the  decay  of  the  mythi(al 
faculty,  the  fable  would  be  somewhat  changed  in 
form  and  embellished,  and  perhaps  come  at  )ast 
to   be   regarded  as   merely   symbolical.     But  sjrm- 


THE  SERPENT'S  STRANGENESS    171 

holism  does  not  exist  among  barbarians  and 
savages:  it  comes  in  only  when  the  intellect  has 
progressed  sufficiently  far  to  become  enamoured  of 
subtleties.  When  the  savage  Shawnees  heard  the 
hissing  of  a  great  snake  in  the  thunder,  and  saw 
in  the  lightning  a  fiery  serpent  descending  to  the 
earth,  the  beings  they  heard  and  saw  were  real — 
as  real  as  the  rattlesnake.  The  same  may  be  said 
of  the  monster  serpent  with  a  precious  stone  for  a 
crown  of  the  Iroquois  and  Algonquins;  and  of  the 
mighty  Onnient,  the  serpent  of  the  Hurons,  bearing 
a  horn  on  its  head  with  which  it  was  able  to  pierce 
through  rocks  and  hills. 

Greater  than  these  (as  gods  are  greater  than 
heroes)  were  some  of  the  serpents  of  old,  and  they 
also  had  a  vastly  greater  influence  on  human 
destiny;  but  in  their  origins  they  were  probably 
the  same — merely  the  strange  births  of  the  mythical 
faculty  and  the  lawless  imagination  of  the  primitive 
mind:  the  Mexican  Cihua  Cohuatl,  "the  woman 
of  the  serpent,"  and  mother  of  the  human  race; 
and  the  serpent  of  the  Edda  that  encircled  the 
world;  and  Persian  Ahriman,  "the  old  serpent 
having  two  feet,"  who  seduced  Mechia  and 
Mechiana,  the  first  man  and  woman;  and,  most 
awful  of  all,  Aphophis,  "the  destroyer,  the  enemy 
of  the  gods,  and  devourer  of  the  souls  of  men; 
dweller  in  that  mysterious  ocean  upon  which  the 
Boris,  or  boat  of  the  sun,  was  navigated  by  the 
gods  through  the  hours  of  day  and  night,  in  the 
celestial  region." 


XVI 

THE  BRUISED  SERPENT 

Some  hold  that  our  abhorrence  of  the  serpent 
tribe,  the  undiscriminating  feehng  which  involves 
the  innocent  with  the  harmful,  is  instinctive  in 
man.  Many  primitive,  purely  animal  promptings 
and  impulses  survive  in  us,  of  which,  they  argue, 
this  may  be  one.  It  is  common  knowledge  that 
the  sight  of  a  serpent  affects  many  persons,  especially 
Europeans,  in  a  sudden  violent  manner,  with  a 
tremor  and  tingling  of  the  nerves,  like  a  million 
messages  of  startling  import  flying  from  the  centre 
of  intelhgence  to  all  outlying  parts  of  the  bodily 
kingdom;  and  these  sensations  of  alarm,  horror, 
and  disgust  are,  in  most  cases,  accompanied  or 
instantly  followed  by  an  access  of  fury,  a  powerful 
impulse  to  crush  the  offensive  reptile  to  death. 
The  commonness  of  the  feeling  and  its  violence, 
so  utterly  out  of  proportion  to  the  danger  to  be 
apprehended,  do  certainly  give  it  the  appearance 
of  a  true  instinctive  impulse;  nevertheless,  such 
appearance  may  be  deceptive.  Fear,  however  it 
may  originate,  is  of  all  emotions  the  least  rational; 
and   the   actions   of   a   person    great\y   excited   by 

J72 


THE  BRUISED  SERPENT  173 

it  will  most  nearly  resemble  those  of  the  lower 
animals. 

Darwin,  on  the  slightest  evidence,  affirms  that 
monkeys  display  an  instinctive  or  inherited  fear  of 
snakes.  There  are  many  who  would  think  any 
further  inquiry  into  the  matter  superfluous;  for, 
they  would  argue,  if  monkeys  fear  snakes  in  that 
way,  then  assuredly  we,  developed  monkeys,  must 
regard  them  with  a  feeling  identical  in  character 
and  origin.  To  be  able  thus  to  skim  with  the 
swallow's  grace  and  celerity  over  dark  and  possibly 
unfathomable  questions  is  a  very  engaging  accom- 
plishment, and  apparently  a  very  popular  one. 
What  is  done  with  ease  will  always  be  done  with 
pleasure;  and  what  can  be  easier  or  more  agreeable 
than  to  argue  in  this  fashion:  "Fear  of  snakes  is 
merely  another  example  of  historical  memory,  re- 
calling a  time  when  man,  like  his  earliest  ancestors, 
the  anthropoid  apes,  was  sylvan  and  solitary;  a 
mighty  climber  of  trees  whose  fingers  were  fre- 
quently bitten  by  bird-nesting  colubers,  and  who 
was  occasionally  swallowed  entire  by  colossal 
serpents  of  arboreal  habits." 

The  instinctive  fear  of  enemies,  although  plainly 
traceable  in  insects,  with  some  other  creatures  low 
in  the  organic  scale,  is  exceedingly  rare  among  the 
higher  vertebrates;  so  rare  indeed  as  to  incline 
any  one  who  has  made  a  real  study  of  their  actions 
to  doubt  its  existence.  It  is  certain  that  zoo- 
logical writers  are  in  the  habit  of  confusing  in- 
stinctive   or    inherited    with    traditional    fear,    the 


174     THE  BOOK  OF  A  NATURALIST 

last  being  the  fear  of  an  enemy  which  the  young 
learn  from  their  parents  or  other  adults  they 
associate  with.  Fear  is  contagious;  the  alarm  of 
the  adults  communicates  itself  to  the  young,  with 
the  result  that  the  object  that  excited  it  remains 
thereafter  one  of  terror.  Not  only  in  this  matter 
of  snakes  and  monkeys,  but  with  regard  to  other 
creatures,  Darwin  lays  it  down  that  in  the  higher 
vertebrates  the  habit  of  fear  of  any  particular 
enemy  quickly  becomes  instinctive;  and  this  false 
inference  has  been  accepted  without  question  by 
Herbert  Spencer,  who  was  obliged  to  study  animal 
habits  in  books,  and  was  consequently  to  some 
extent  at  the  mercy  of  those  who  wrote  them. 

It  is  frequently  stated  in  narratives  of  travel 
in  the  less  settled  portions  of  North  America  that 
all  domestic  animals,  excepting  the  pig,  have  an 
instinctive  dread  of  the  rattlesnake;  that  they 
know  its  whirring  sound,  and  are  also  able  to  smell 
it  at  some  distance,  and  instantly  come  to  a  dead 
halt,  trembling  with  agitation.  The  fear  is  a  fact; 
but  why  instinctive?  Some  time  ago,  while  reading 
over  again  a  very  delightful  book  of  travels,  I 
came  to  a  passage  descriptive  of  the  acute  sense 
of  smell  and  sagacity  of  the  native  horse;  and  the 
writer,  as  an  instance  in  point,  related  that  fre- 
quently, when  riding  at  a  swift  pace  across  country 
on  a  dark  night,  over  ground  made  dangerous  by 
numerous  concealed  burrows,  his  beast  had  swerved 
aside  suddenly,  os  if  he  had  trod  on  a  snake.  His 
sense  of  smell  had  warned  him   in  time  of  some 


THE  BRUISED  SERPENT  175 

grass-covered  kennel  in  the  way.  But  that  image 
of  the  snake,  introduced  to  give  a  more  vivid  idea 
of  the  animal's  action  in  swerving  aside,  was 
false;  and  because  of  its  falseness  and  the  want 
of  observation  it  betrayed,  the  charm  of  the 
passage  was  sensibly  diminished.  For  not  once 
or  twice,  but  many  scores  of  times  it  has  happened 
to  me,  in  that  very  country  so  graphically  de- 
scribed in  the  book,  while  travelling  at  a  swinging 
gallop  in  the  bright  daylight,  that  my  horse  has 
trodden  on  a  basking  serpent  and  has  swerved  not 
at  all,  nor  appeared  conscious  of  a  living,  fleshy 
thing  that  yielded  to  his  unshod  hoof.  Passing 
on,  I  have  thrown  back  a  glance  to  see  my  victim 
writhing  on  the  ground,  and  hoped  that  it  was 
bruised  only,  not  broken  or  fatally  injured,  like 
the  serpent  of  the  Roman  poet's  simile,  over  which 
the  brazen  chariot  wheel  has  passed.  Yet  if  the 
rider  saw  it — saw  it,  I  mean,  before  the  accident, 
although  too  late  for  any  merciful  action — the 
horse  must  have  seen  it.  The  reason  he  did  not 
swerve  was  because  serpents  are  very  abundant 
in  that  country,  in  the  proportion  of  about  thirty 
harmless  individuals  to  one  that  is  venomous;  con- 
sequently it  is  a  rare  thing  for  a  horse  to  be  bitten; 
and  the  serpentine  form  is  famihar  to  and  excites 
no  fear  in  him.  He  saw  the  reptile  lying  just  in  his 
way,  motionless  in  the  sunlight,  "  lit  with  colour  like 
a  rock  with  flowers,"  and  it  caused  no  emotion,  and 
was  no  more  to  him  than  the  yellow  and  purple 
blossoms  he  trampled  upon  at  every  yard. 


176    THE  BOOK  OF  A  NATURALIST 

It  is  not  the  same  in  the  western  prairies  of 
North  America.  Venomous  serpents  are  relatively 
more  abundant  there,  and  grow  larger,  >and  their 
bite  is  more  dangerous.  The  horse  learns  to  fear 
them,  especially  the  rattlesnake,  on  account  of 
its  greater  power,  its  sluggish  habits  and  warning 
faculties.  The  sound  of  the  rattle  calls  up  the 
familiar  ophidian  image  to  his  mind;  and  when 
the  rattle  has  failed  to  sound,  the  smell  will  often 
serve  as  a  warning;  which  is  not  strange  when  we 
consider  that  even  man,  with  his  feeble  olfactory 
sense,  is  sometimes  able  to  discover  the  presence 
of  a  rattlesnake,  even  at  a  distance  of  several  feet, 
by  means  of  its  powerful  musky  effluvium.  The 
snake-eating  savages  of  Queensland  track  their 
game  by  the  slight  scent  it  leaves  on  the  ground 
in  travelling,  which  is  quite  imperceptible  to 
Europeans.  In  the  same  way  the  horse  is  said  to 
smell  wolves,  and  to  exhibit  instinctive  terror  when 
they  are  still  at  a  distance  and  invisible.  The 
terror  is  not  instinctive.  The  horses  of  the  white 
settlers  on  some  frontier  lands,  exposed  to  frequent 
attacks  from  savages,  smell  the  coming  enemy,  and 
fly  in  panic  before  he  makes  his  appearance;  yet 
when  horses  are  taken  from  the  savages  and  used 
by  the  whites,  these  too  after  a  time  learn  to 
show  terror  at  the  smell  of  their  former  masters. 
Their  terror  is  derived  from  the  horses  of  the 
whites.  The  hunter  Selous,  as  a  result  of  ten  years 
of  observation  while  engaged  in  the  pursuit  of  big 
game  in  the  heart  of  Africa,  affirms  that  the  horse 


THE  BRUISED  SERPENT  177 

has  no  instinctive  fear  of  the  hon;  if  he  has  never 
been  mauled  or  attacked  by  them,  nor  associated 
with  horses  that  have  learnt  from  experience  or 
tradition  to  dread  them,  he  exhibits  no  more  fear 
of  lions  than  of  zebras  and  camelopards.  The  fact 
is  the  horse  fears  in  different  regions  the  lion,  vi^olf, 
puma,  red-skin,  and  rattlesnake,  just  as  the  burnt 
child  dreads  the  fire. 

But  here  is  an  incident,  say  the  believers  in 
Darwin's  notion,  which  proves  that  the  fear  of 
certain  animals  is  instinctive  in  the  horse.  A 
certain  big -game  hunter  brought  home  a  lion's 
hide,  rolled  up  before  it  was  properly  dried  and 
wrapped  up  in  canvas.  It  was  opened  in  the 
stable  where  there  were  several  horses,  and  the 
covering  was  no  sooner  removed  and  the  hide 
peeled  open  than  the  horses  were  thrown  into  a 
panic.  The  true  explanation  is  that  horses  are 
terrified  at  any  strange  animal  smell,  and  a  powerful 
smell  from  the  hide  of  any  animal  unknown  to 
them  would  have  had  the  same  effect.  That  fear 
of  a  strange  animal  smell  is  probably  an  instinct, 
but  it  may  not  be.  In  a  state  of  nature  the  horse 
learns  from  experience  that  certain  smells  indicate 
danger,  and  in  Patagonia  and  on  the  pampas, 
when  he  flies  in  terror  from  the  scent  of  a  puma 
which  is  imperceptible  to  a  man,  he  pays  not  the 
slightest  attention  to  the  two  most  powerful 
mammalian  stenches  in  the  world — that  of  the 
skunk,  and  that  of  the  pampas  male  deer,  Cermis 
campestris.     Experience  has  taught  him — or  it  has 


178     THE  BOOK  OF  A  NATURALIST 

come  down  to  him  as  a  tradition — that  these  most 
violent  odours  emanate  from  animals  that  cannot 
harm  him. 

So  much  for  this  view.  On  the  other  hand,  our 
enmity  to  the  serpent,  which  often  exists  together 
with  a  mythic  and  anthropomorphic  belief  in  the 
serpent's  enmity  to  us,  might  be  regarded  as 
purely  traditional,  having  its  origin  in  the 
Scriptural  narrative  of  man's  disobedience  and 
expulsion  from  Paradise.  Whether  we  believe  with 
theologians  that  our  great  spiritual  enemy  was 
the  real  tempter,  who  merely  made  use  of  the 
serpent's  form  as  a  convenient  disguise  in  which 
to  approach  the  woman,  or  take  without  gloss  the 
simple  story  as  it  stands  in  Genesis,  which  only 
says  that  the  serpent  was  the  most  subtle  of  all 
things  made  and  the  sole  cause  of  our  undoing, 
the  result  for  the  creature  is  equally  disastrous. 
A  mark  is  set  upon  him:  "Because  thou  hast  done 
this  thing  thou  art  cursed  above  all  cattle,  and 
above  every  beast  of  the  field;  upon  thy  belly 
shalt  thou  go,  and  dust  shalt  thou  eat  all  the  days 
of  thy  life:  and  I  will  place  enmity  between  thy 
seed  and  her  seed;  and  it  shall  bruise  thy  head, 
and  thou  shalt  bruise  its  heel."  This  prophecy,  so 
far  as  it  tells  against  the  creature,  has  been  literally 
fulfilled. 

The  Satanic  theory  concerning  snakes — ^that 
**  destructive  delusion,"  which  Sir  Thomas  Browne 
shrewdly  remarks,  "  hath  much  enlarged  the 
opinion  of  their  mischief  " — makes  it  necessary  for 


THE  BRUISED  SERPENT  179 

the  theologian  to  believe  not  only  that  the  serpent 
of  Paradise  before  its  degradation  walked  erect  on 
two  legs,  as  the  Fathers  taught — some  going  so  far 
as  to  give  it  a  beautiful  head  as  well  as  a  ready- 
tongue — but  also  that  after  the  devil  had  cast  aside 
the  temporary  coil  something  of  his  demoniac 
spirit  remained  thereafter  in  it,  to  be  transmitted 
by  inheritance,  like  a  variation  in  structure  or  a 
new  instinct,  to  its  remotest  descendants.  There 
is  the  further  objection,  although  not  an  important 
one,  that  it  would  be  unjust  to  afflict  the  serpent 
so  grievously  for  a  crime  of  which  it  had  only  been 
made  the  involuntary  agent. 

Believers  in  an  instinct  in  man  inimical  to  the 
serpent  might  still  argue  that  the  Scriptural  curse 
only  goes  to  show  that  this  reptile  was  already  held 
in  general  abhorrence — that,  in  fact,  the  feeling 
suggested  the  fable.  That  the  fable  had  some  such 
origin  is  probable,  but  we  are  just  as  far  from  an 
instinct  as  ever.  The  general  feeling  of  mankind, 
or,  at  any  rate,  of  the  leading  men  during  the 
earliest  civilised  periods  of  which  we  have  any 
knowledge,  was  one  of  veneration,  even  of  love, 
for  the  serpent.  The  Jews  alone  were  placed  by 
their  monotheistic  doctrine  in  direct  antagonism  to 
all  nature-worship  and  idolatry.  In  their  leaders 
— prophets  and  priests — the  hatred  of  the  heathen 
and  of  heathen  modes  of  thought  was  kept  alive, 
and  constantly  fanned  into  a  fierce  flame  by  the 
prevalent  tendency  in  the  common  people  to  revert 
to  the  surrounding  older  and  lower  forms  of  religion. 


180     THE  BOOK  OF  A  NATURALIST 

which  were  more  in  harmony  with  their  mental 
condition.  The  proudest  boast  of  their  highest 
intellects  was  that  they  had  never  bowed  in  rever- 
ence or  kissed  their  hand  to  anything  in  nature. 
In  such  circumstances  it  was  unavoidable  that  the 
specific  object — rock,  or  tree,  or  animal — singled 
out  for  worship,  or  for  superstitious  veneration, 
should  to  some  extent  become  involved  in  the 
feeHng  first  excited  against  the  worshipper.  If  the 
Jews  hated  the  serpent  with  a  peculiarly  bitter 
hatred,  it  was  doubtless  because  all  others  looked 
on  it  as  a  sacred  animal,  an  incarnation  of  the 
Deity.  The  chosen  people  had  also  been  its  wor- 
shippers at  an  earlier  period,  as  the  Bible  shows, 
and  while  hating  it,  they  still  retained  the  old 
behef,  intimately  connected  with  serpent-worship 
everywhere,  in  the  creature's  preternatural  subtlety 
and  wisdom.  The  priests  of  other  Eastern  nations 
introduced  it  into  their  sacred  rites  and  mysteries; 
the  Jewish  priests  introduced  it  historically  into  the 
Garden  of  Eden  to  account  for  man's  transgression 
and  fall.  "  Be  ye  wise  as  serpents,"  was  a  saying 
of  the  deepest  significance.  In  Europe  men  were 
anciently  taught  by  the  Druids  to  venerate  the 
adder;  the  Jews — or  Jewish  books — taught  them 
to  abhor  it.  To  my  way  of  thinking,  neither 
blessing  nor  banning  came  by  instinct. 

Veneration  of  the  serpent  still  survives  in  a 
great  part  of  the  world,  as  in  Hindustan  and  other 
parts  of  Asia.  It  is  strong  in  Madagascar,  and 
flourishes    more    or    less    throughout    Africa.      It 


THE  BRUISED  SERPENT  181 

lingers  in  North  America,  and  is  strong  in  some 
places  where  the  serpents,  used  in  religious  serpent 
dances,  unlike  those  of  Madagascar,  are  venomous, 
and  it  has  not  yet  wholly  died  out  in  Europe.  The 
Finns  have  a  great  regard  for  the  adder. 

It  may  be  added  here  that  there  are  many 
authenticated  instances  of  children  becoming  at- 
tached to  snakes  and  making  pets  of  them.  The 
solution  of  a  question  of  this  kind  is  sometimes 
to  be  found  in  the  child-mind.  My  experience  is 
that  when  young  children  see  this  creature,  its 
strange  appearance  and  manner  of  progression,  so 
unlike  those  of  other  animals  known  to  them, 
affect  them  with  amazement  and  a  sense  of  mys- 
tery, and  that  they  fear  it  just  as  they  would  fear 
any  other  strange  thing.  Monkeys  are  doubtless 
affected  in  much  the  same  way,  although,  in  a 
state  of  nature,  where  they  inhabit  forests  abound- 
ing with  the  larger  constrictors  and  venomous  tree- 
snakes,  it  is  highly  probable  that  they  also  possess 
a  traditional  fear  of  the  serpent  form.  It  would  be 
strange  if  they  did  not.  The  experiment  of  pre- 
senting a  caged  monkey  with  a  serpent  carefully 
wrapped  up  in  paper  and  watching  his  behaviour 
when  he  gravely  opens  the  parcel,  expecting  to 
find  nothing  more  wonderful  than  the  familiar 
sponge-cake  or  succulent  banana — well,  such  an 
experiment  has  been  recorded  in  half  a  hundred 
important  scientific  works,  and  out  of  respect  to 
one's  masters  one  should  endeavour  not  to  smile 
when  reading  it. 


182     THE  BOOK  OF  A  NATURALIST 

A  third  view  might  be  taken,  which  would 
account  for  our  feeling  towards  the  serpent  without 
either  instinct  or  tradition.  Extreme  fear  of  all 
ophidians  may  simply  result  from  a  vague  know- 
ledge of  the  fact  that  some  kinds  are  venomous, 
that  in  some  rare  cases  death  follows  swiftly  on 
their  bite,  and  that,  not  being  sufficiently  intelli- 
gent to  distinguish  the  noxious  from  the  innocuous 
— at  all  events  while  under  the  domination  of  a 
sudden  violent  emotion — we  destroy  them  all  alike, 
thus  adopting  Herod's  rough-and-ready  method  of 
ridding  his  city  of  one  inconvenient  babe  by  a 
general  massacre  of  innocents. 

It  might  be  objected  that  in  Europe,  where 
animosity  to  the  serpent  is  greatest,  death  from 
snake-bite  is  hardly  to  be  feared,  that  Fontana's 
six  thousand  experiments  with  the  viper,  showing 
how  small  is  the  amount  of  venom  possessed  by 
this  species,  how  rarely  it  has  the  power  to  destroy 
human  life,  have  been  before  the  world  for  a 
century.  And  although  it  must  be  admitted  that 
Fontana's  work  is  not  in  the  hand  of  every  peasant, 
the  fact  remains  that  death  from  snake-bite  is  a 
rare  thing  in  Europe,  probably  not  more  than  one 
person  losing  his  life  from  this  cause  for  every  two 
hundred  and  fifty  who  perish  by  hydrophobia,  of 
all  forms  of  death  the  most  terrible.  Yet  while 
the  sight  of  a  snake  excites  in  a  majority  of  persons 
the  most  violent  emotions,  dogs  are  universal 
favourites,  and  we  have  them  always  with  us  and 
make  pets  of  them,  in  spite  of  the  knowledge  that 


THE  BRUISED  SERPENT  183 

they  may  at  any  time  become  rabid  and  inflict 
that  unspeakable  dreadful  suffering  and  destruction 
on  us.  This  leads  to  the  following  question:  Is 
it  not  at  least  probable  that  our  excessive  fear  of 
the  serpent,  so  unworthy  of  us  as  rational  beings 
and  the  cause  of  so  much  unnecessary  cruelty,  is, 
partly  at  all  events,  a  result  of  our  superstitious 
fear  of  sudden  death?  For  there  exists,  we  know, 
an  exceedingly  widespread  delusion  that  the  bite 
of  a  venomous  serpent  must  kill,  and  kill  quickly. 
Compared  with  such  ophidian  monarchs  as  the 
bush-master,  fer-de-lance,  hamadryad,  and  tic- 
polonga,  the  viper  of  Europe — the  poor  viper  of 
many  experiments  and  much,  not  too  readable, 
literature — may  be  regarded  as  almost  harmless, 
at  all  events  not  much  more  harmful  than  the 
hornet.  Nevertheless,  in  this  cold  northern  world, 
even  as  in  other  worlds  where  nature  elaborates 
more  potent  juices,  the  delusion  prevails,  and  may 
be  taken  in  account  here,  although  its  origin  cannot 
now  be  discussed. 

Against  sudden  death  we  are  taught  to  pray 
from  infancy,  and  those  who  believe  that  their 
chances  of  a  happy  immortality  are  enormously 
increased  when  death  comes  slowly,  approaching 
them,  as  it  were,  visibly,  so  that  the  soul  has 
ample  time  to  make  its  peace  with  an  incensed 
Deity,  have  not  far  to  look  for  the  cause  of  the 
feehng.  It  is  true  that  death  from  hydrophobia 
is  very  horrible,  and,  comparatively,  of  frequent 
occurrence,  but  it  does  not  find  its  victim  wholly 


184    THE  BOOK  OF  A  NATURALIST 

unprepared.  After  being  bitten  he  has  had  time 
to  reflect  on  the  possible,  even  probable,  con- 
sequence, and  to  make  due  preparation  for  the 
end;  and  even  at  the  last,  although  tortured  to 
frenzy  at  intervals  by  strange  unhuman  agonies, 
however  clouded  with  apprehensions  his  intellect 
may  be,  it  is  not  altogether  darkened  and  un- 
conscious of  approaching  dissolution.  We  know 
that  men  in  other  times  have  had  no  such  fear  of 
sudden  death,  that  among  the  most  advanced  of 
the  ancients  some  even  regarded  death  from 
lightning-stroke  as  a  signal  mark  of  Heaven's 
favour.  We,  on  the  contrary,  greatly  fear  the 
lightning,  seldom  as  it  hurts;  and  the  serpent 
and  the  lightning  are  objects  of  terror  to  us  in 
about  the  same  degree,  and  perhaps  for  the  same 
reason. 

Thus  any  view  which  we  may  take  of  this 
widespread  and  irrational  feeling  is  at  once  found 
to  be  so  complicated  with  other  feelings  and  matters 
affecting  us  that  no  convincing  solution  seems 
possible.  Perhaps  it  would  be  as  well  to  regard 
it  as  a  compound  of  various  elements:  traditional 
feeling  having  its  origin  in  the  Hebrew  narrative 
of  man's  fall  from  innocency  and  happiness;  our 
ignorance  concerning  serpents  and  the  amount  of 
injury  they  are  able  to  do  us;  and,  lastly,  our 
superstitious  dread  of  swift  and  unexpected  death. 
Sticklers  for  the  simple — and  to  my  mind  erroneous 
— theory  that  a  primitive  instinct  is  under  it  all, 
may  throw  in  something  of  that  element  if  they 


THE  BRUISED  SERPENT  185 

like — a  small  residuum  existing  in  races  that 
emerged  in  comparatively  recent  times  from  bar- 
barism, but  which  has  been  eliminated  from  a 
long-civilised  people  like  the  Hindoos. 

For  my  own  part  I  am  inclined  to  believe  that 
we  regard  serpents  with  a  destructive  hatred 
purely  and  simply  because  we  are  so  taught  from 
childhood.  A  tradition  may  be  handed  down 
without  writing,  or  even  articulate  speech.  We 
have  not  altogether  ceased  to  be  "  lower  animals  " 
ourselves.  Show  a  child  by  your  gestures  and 
actions  that  a  thing  is  fearful  to  you;  and  he  will 
fear  it,  that  you  hate  it,  and  he  will  catch  your 
hatred.  So  far  back  as  memory  carries  me  I  find 
the  snake,  in  its  unwarrantable  intrusion  on  the 
scene,  ever  associated  with  loud  exclamations  of 
astonishment  and  rage,  with  a  hurried  search  for 
those  primitive  weapons  always  lying  ready  to 
hand,  sticks  and  stones,  then  the  onset  and 
triumphant  crushing  of  that  wonderfully  fashioned 
vertebra  in  its  scaly  vari-coloured  mantle,  coihng 
and  writhing  for  a  few  moments  imder  the  cruel 
rain  of  blows,  appealing  not  with  voice  but  with 
agonised  yet  ever  graceful  action  for  mercy  to  the 
merciless;  and  finally,  the  paean  of  victory  from 
the  slayer,  lifting  his  face  still  aglow  with  righteous 
wrath,  a  little  St.  George  in  his  own  estimation; 
for  has  he  not  rid  the  earth  of  another  monster,  one 
of  that  demoniac  brood  that  was  cursed  of  old,  and 
this  without  injury  to  his  sacred  heel? 


XVII 
THE  SERPENT  IN  LITERATURE 

Preamble 

Among  the  thousand  and  one  projects  I  have 
entertained  at  various  times  was  one  for  a  work 
on  snakes,  with  the  good  though  somewhat 
ambitious  title  of  "  The  Book  of  the  Serpent." 
This  was  not  to  be  the  work  of  one  who  must 
write  a  book  about  something,  but  a  work  on  a 
subject  which  had  long  had  a  peculiar  fascination 
for  the  author,  which  for  years  had  cried  to  be 
written,  and  finally  had  to  be  written. 

As  it  was  a  work  requiring  a  great  deal  of 
research,  it  would  take  a  long  time  to  write,  long 
years,  in  fact,  since  it  would  have  to  be  done  at 
odd  times,  when  hours  or  days  or  weeks  could  be 
spared  from  the  hard  business  of  manufacturing 
mere  bread-and-cheese  books.  Collecting  material 
would  have  to  be  a  slow  process,  involving  the 
perusal  or  consultation  of  a  thousand  volumes, 
and  probably  ten  thousand  periodicals  and  annals 
and  proceedings  and  journals  of  many  natural 
history  societies,  great  and  small,  of  many  countries. 
And  all  this  research,   with  the  classification  and 

186 


THE  SERPENT  IN  LITERATURE  187 

indexing  of  notes,  would  be  exceeded  by  the  task 
of  selection  to  follow — selection  and  compression 
— since  "  The  Book  of  the  Serpent "  would  be  in 
one  volume  and  not  in  half-a-dozen.  And  after 
selection,  or  let  us  say  deglutition,  there  would 
ensue  the  dilatory  process  of  digestion  and  assimila- 
tion. If  properly  assimilated,  the  personal  impres- 
sions of  a  hundred  independent  observers,  field- 
naturalists  and  travellers,  and  of  a  hundred  in- 
dependent students  of  ophiology,  would  be  fused, 
as  it  were,  and  run  into  one  along  with  the  author's 
personal  observations  and  his  deductions. 

Now,  even  if  all  this  could  have  been  done,  and 
the  best  form  hit  upon,  and  the  work  eloquently 
written,  it  would  still  fall  far  short  of  the  ideal 
"  Book  of  the  Serpent "  on  account  of  insufficient 
knowledge  of  a  particular  kind — I  don't  mean 
anatomy.  And  had  I  been  a  person  of  means  I 
should,  before  beginning  my  work — getting  a  pale, 
wan  face  through  poring  over  miserable  books — 
have  gone  away  on  a  five  or  ten  years'  serpent 
quest  to  get  that  particular  kind  of  knowledge  by 
becoming  acquainted  personally  with  all  the  most 
distinguished  ophidians  on  the  globe.  The  first 
si^ht  of  a  thing,  the  shock  of  emotion,  the  vivid 
and  ineffaceable  image  registered  in  the  brain,  is 
worth  more  than  all  the  knowledge  acquired  by 
reading,  and  this  applies  to  the  serpent  above  all 
creatures.  There  is  indeed  but  little  difference 
between  this  creature  dead  and  in  confinement. 
It  was  the  serpent  in  motion  on  the  rock  that  was 


188    THE  BOOK  OF  A  NATURALIST 

a  wonder  and  mystery  to  the  wisest  man.  In 
one  of  my  snake-books  by  a  French  naturalist  in 
the  West  Indies  there  is  an  account  of  a  fer-de-lance 
which  he  kept  confined  in  order  to  study  its  habits. 
He  watched  it  hour  after  hour,  day  after  day, 
lying  prone  on  the  floor  of  its  cage  as  if  asleep  or 
stupefied,  until  he  was  sick  and  tired  of  seeing  it 
in  that  dull,  dead-alive  state,  and  in  his  disgust  he 
threw  open  the  door  to  let  it  go  free.  He  watched 
it.  Slowly  the  head  turned,  and  slowly,  slowly  it 
began  to  move  towards  the  open  door,  and  so 
dragged  itself  out,  then  over  the  space  of  bare 
ground  towards  the  bushes  and  trees  beyond.  But 
once  well  out  in  the  open  air  its  motions  and 
aspect  began  to  change.  The  long,  straightened- 
out,  dull-coloured,  dragging  body  was  smitten  with 
a  sudden  new  life  and  became  sinuous  in  form; 
its  slow  motion  grew  swift,  and  from  a  dragging 
became  a  gliding  motion;  the  dangerous  head 
with  its  flickering  tongue  lifted  itself  high  up,  the 
stony  eyes  shone,  and  all  along  the  body  the 
scales  sparkled  like  wind-crinkled  water  in  the 
sun:  watching  it,  he  was  thrilled  at  the  sight 
and  amazed  at  this  wonderful  change  in  its 
appearance. 

And  that  is  how  I,  too,  would  have  liked  to  see 
the  fer-de-lance  in  its  dreadful  beauty  and  power; 
the  cribo  too,  that  gives  it  battle,  and  conquers 
and  devours  it  in  spite  of  its  poison  fangs;  also 
its  noble  relations,  the  rattlesnakes  and  pit-vipers, 
led  by  the  Surucuru,  the  serpent  monarch  of  the 


THE  SERPENT  IN  LITERATURE  189 

West;  and  the  constricting  anacondas,  with  the 
greatest  of  them  all,  the  giant  Camudi,  "  mother 
of  the  waters  " ;  also  the  bull  snake  and  the  black 
snake,  and  that  brilliant  deadly  harlequin,  the 
coral  snake.  These  all  are  in  the  New  World,  and 
I  should  then  go  to  the  Old  in  quest  of  blue  sea- 
snakes  and  wonderful  viridescent  tree-snakes,  and 
many  historic  serpents — the  ticpolonga,  the  hooded 
cobras,  and  their  king  and  slayer,  the  awful 
hamadryad. 

A  beautiful  dream  all  this,  like  that  of  the 
poor  little  pale-faced  quill-driver  at  his  desk, 
summing  up  columns  of  figures,  who  falls  to  think- 
ing what  his  life  would  be  with  ten  thousand  a 
year.  All  the  thorny  and  stony  and  sandy  wilder- 
ness, the  dark  Amazonian  and  Arawhimi  forests, 
the  mighty  rivers  to  be  ascended  three  thousand 
miles  from  the  sea  to  their  source,  the  great  moun- 
tain-chains to  be  passed,  Alps  and  Andes,  and 
Himalayas  and  the  Mountains  of  the  Moon,  the 
entire  globe  to  be  explored  in  quest  of  serpents, 
from  the  hot  tropical  jungles  and  malarious  marshes 
to  the  desolate  windy  roof  of  the  world — all  would 
have  to  be  sought  in  the  British  Museum  and  one 
or  two  other  dim  stuffy  libraries,  where  a  man  sits 
in  a  chair  all  day  and  all  the  year  round  with  a 
pile  of  books  before  him. 

Alas  I  in  such  conditions,  without  the  necessary 
precious  personal  knowledge  so  much  desired,  "  The 
Book  of  the  Serpent "  would  never  be  written. 
So  I  said  and  repeated,  yet  still  went  on  with  the 


190    THE  BOOK  OF  A  NATURALIST 

preliminary  work,  and  after  two  or  three  years, 
finding  that  so  far  as  material  went  I  had  got 
almost  more  than  I  could  manage,  I  thought  I 
would  begin  to  try  my  hand  at  writing  a  few 
chapters,  each  dealing  with  some  special  aspect  of 
or  question  relating  to  the  serpent,  and  about  a 
dozen  were  written,  but  left  in  the  rough,  unfinished, 
as  all  would  eventually  have  to  go  back  into  the 
melting-pot  once  more.  By  and  by  I  took  up  and 
finished  three  or  four  of  these  tentative  chapters 
just  to  see  how  they  would  look  in  print;  these 
appeared  in  three  or  four  monthly  reviews  and  are 
all  that  is  left  of  my  ambitious  book. 

It  could  not  be  done,  because,  as  I  tried  to 
make  myself  believe,  it  was  too  long  a  task  for 
one  who  had  to  make  a  living  by  writing,  but  a 
still  small  voice  told  me  that  I  was  deceiving 
myself,  that  if  I  had  just  gone  on,  slowly,  slowly, 
like  the  released  fer-de-lance,  until  I  had  got  out 
into  the  open  air  and  sunshine — until  I  had  a  full 
mind  and  full  command  of  my  subject — I  too 
might  have  gone  on  to  a  triumphant  end.  No,  it 
was  not  because  the  task  was  too  long;  the  secret 
and  real  reason  was  a  discouraging  thought  which 
need  not  be  given  here,  since  it  is  stated  in  the 
paper  to  follow.  There's  nothing  more  to  say 
about  it  except  that  I  now  make  a  present  of  the 
title — "  The  Book  of  the  Serpent  " — to  any  person 
who  would  like  to  use  it,  and  I  only  ask  that  it 
be  not  given  to  a  handbook  on  snakes,  nor  to  a 
monograph — God  deliver  us!  as  Huxley  said.     Or 


THE  SERPENT  IN  LITERATURE  191 

if  he  did  not  use  that  particular  expression  he 
protested  against  the  multiphcation  of  such  works, 
and  even  feared  that  we  should  all  be  buried  alive 
under  them — the  ponderous  tomes  which  nobody 
reads,  elephantine  bodies  without  souls;  or  shall 
we  say,  carcasses,  dressed  and  placed  in  their 
canvas  coverings  on  shelves  in  the  cold  storage  of 
the  zoological  libraries. 

As  to  the  paper  which  follows,  it  was  never 
intended  to  use  it  as  it  stands  for  the  book.  It  is 
nothing  but  a  little  exercise,  and  merely  touches 
the  fringe  of  a  subject  for  a  great  book — not  an 
anthology  (Heaven  save  us  I),  but  a  history  and 
review  of  the  literature  of  the  serpent  from  Ruskin 
back  to  Sanconiathon,  and  I  now  also  generously 
give  away  this  title  of  "  The  Serpent  in  Literature." 

When  the  snakists  of  the  British  Museum  or 
other  biological  workshop  have  quite  done  with 
their  snake,  have  pulled  it  out  of  its  jar  and  popped 
it  in  again  to  their  hearts'  content;  weighed, 
measured,  counted  ribs  and  scales,  identified  its 
species,  sub-species,  and  variety;  and  have  duly 
put  it  all  down  in  a  book,  made  a  fresh  label, 
perhaps  written  a  paper — when  all  is  finished, 
something  remains  to  be  said;  something  about 
the  snake;  the  creature  that  was  not  a  spiral- 
shaped,  rigid,  cylindrical  piece  of  clay-coloured 
gutta-percha,  no  longer  capable  of  exciting  strange 
emotions  in  us — the  unsightly  dropped  coil  of  a 
spirit  that  was  fiery  and  cold.     Where  shall  that 


192    THE  BOOK  OF  A  NATURALIST 

something  be  found?  Not  assuredly  in  the  paper 
the  snakist  has  written,  nor  in  the  monographs  and 
Natural  Histories;  where  then?  —  since  in  the 
absence  of  the  mysterious  creature  itself  it  might 
be  interesting  to  read  it. 

It  is  true  that  in  spite  of  a  great  deal  of  bruising 
by  Christian  heels  the  serpent  still  survives  in  this 
country,  although  it  can  hardly  be  said  to  flourish. 
Sometimes,  walking  by  a  hedge  -  side,  a  slight 
rustling  sound  and  movement  of  the  grass  betrays 
the  presence  of  the  common  or  ring  snake;  then, 
if  chance  favours  and  eyes  are  sharp,  a  glimpse  may 
be  had  of  the  shy  creature,  gliding  with  swift 
sinuous  motions  out  of  harm's  way.  Or  on  the 
dry  open  common  one  may  all  at  once  catch  sight 
of  a  strip  of  coppery-red  or  dull  brown  colour  with 
a  curious  black  mark  on  it — an  adder  lying  at  ease 
in  the  warm  sunshine!  Not  sleeping,  but  awake; 
a  little  startled  at  the  muffled  thunder  of  approach- 
ing footfalls,  with  crackling  of  dead  leaves  and 
sticks,  as  of  a  coming  conflagration;  then,  per- 
haps, the  appearance  of  a  shape,  looming  vast  and 
cloudlike  on  its  dim  circumscribed  field  of  vision; 
but  at  the  same  time  lethargic,  disinclined  to  move, 
heavy  with  a  meal  it  will  never  digest,  or  big  with 
young  that,  jarred  with  their  parent,  have  some 
vague  sense  of  peril  within  the  living  prison  from 
which  they  will  never  issue. 

Or  a  strange  thing  may  be  seen — a  cluster  of 
hibernating  adders,  unearthed  by  workmen  in  the 
winter  time  when  engaged  in  quarrying  stone  or 


THE  SERPENT  IN  LITERATURE  193 

grubbing  up  an  old  stump.  Still  more  wonderful 
it  is  to  witness  a  knot  or  twined  mass  of  adders, 
not  self -buried,  semi-torpid,  and  of  the  temperature 
of  the  cold  ground,  but  hot-blooded  in  the  hot  sun, 
active,  hissing,  swinging  their  tails.  In  a  remote 
corner  of  this  island  there  exists  an  extensive  boggy 
heath  where  adders  are  still  abundant,  and  grow 
black  as  the  stagnant  rushy  pools,  and  the  slime 
under  the  turf,  which  invites  the  foot  with  its 
velvety  appearance,  but  is  dangerous  to  tread  upon. 
In  this  snaky  heath-land,  in  the  warm  season,  when 
the  frenzy  takes  them,  twenty  or  thirty  or  more 
adders  are  sometimes  found  twined  together;  they 
are  discovered  perhaps  by  some  solitary  pedestrian, 
cautiously  picking  his  way,  gun  in  hand,  and  the 
sight  amazes  and  sends  a  sharp  electric  shock 
along  his  spinal  cord.  All  at  once  he  remembers 
his  gun  and  discharges  it  into  the  middle  of  the 
living  mass,  to  boast  thereafter  to  the  very  end  of 
his  life  of  how  he  killed  a  score  of  adders  at  one 
shot. 

To  witness  this  strange  thing,  and  experience  the 
peculiar  sensation  it  gives,  it  is  necessary  to  go  far 
and  to  spend  much  time  in  seeking  and  waiting  and 
watching.  A  bright  spring  morning  in  England  no 
longer  *'  craves  wary  walking,"  as  in  the  days  of 
Elizabeth.  Practically  the  serpent  hardly  exists 
for  us,  so  seldom  do  we  see  it,  so  completely  has  it 
dropped  out  of  our  consciousness.  But  if  we  have 
known  the  creature,  at  home  or  abroad,  and  wish 
in  reading  to   recover  the   impression  of   a   sweet 


194    THE  BOOK  OF  A  NATURALIST 

summer  -  hot  Nature  that  invites  our  caresses, 
always  with  a  subtle  serpent  somewhere  concealed 
in  the  folds  of  her  garments,  we  must  go  to  litera- 
ture rather  than  to  science.  The  poet  has  the 
secret,  not  the  naturalist.  A  book  or  an  article 
about  snakes  moves  us  not  at  all — not  in  the  way 
we  should  like  to  be  moved — because,  to  begin 
with,  there  is  too  much  of  the  snake  in  it.  Nature 
does  not  teem  with  snakes;  furthermore,  we  are 
not  familiar  with  these  creatures,  and  do  not 
handle  and  examine  them  as  a  game-dealer  handles 
dead  rabbits.  A  rare  and  solitary  being,  the  sharp 
effect  it  produces  on  the  mind  is  in  a  measure  due 
to  its  rarity — to  its  appearance  being  unexpected 
— to  surprise  and  the  shortness  of  the  time  during 
which  it  is  visible.  It  is  not  seen  distinctly  as  in 
a  museum  or  laboratory,  dead  on  a  table,  but  in 
an  atmosphere  and  surroundings  that  take  some- 
thing from  and  add  something  to  it;  seen  at  first 
as  a  chance  disposition  of  dead  leaves  or  twigs  or 
pebbles  on  the  ground  —  a  handful  of  Nature's 
mottled  riff  -  raff  blown  or  thrown  fortuitously 
together  so  as  to  form  a  peculiar  pattern;  all  at 
once,  as  by  a  flash,  it  is  seen  to  be  no  dead  leaves  or 
twigs  or  grass,  but  a  living  active  coil,  a  serpent 
lifting  its  flat  arrowy  head,  vibrating  a  glistening 
forked  tongue,  hissing  with  dangerous  fury;  and 
in  another  moment  it  has  vanished  into  the  thicket, 
and  is  nothing  but  a  memory — merely  a  thread  of 
brilliant  colour  woven  into  the  ever-changing  vari- 
coloured   embroidery    of    Nature's    mantle,     seen 


THE  SERPENT  IN  LITERATURE  195 

vividly  for  an  instant,  then  changing  to  dull  grey 
and  fading  from  sight. 

It  is  because  the  poet  does  not  see  his  subject 
apart  from  its  surroundings,  deprived  of  its  atmo- 
sphere— a  mere  fragment  of  beggarly  matter — does 
not  see  it  too  well,  with  all  the  details  which  be- 
come visible  only  after  a  minute  and,  therefore, 
cold  examination,  but  as  a  part  of  the  picture,  a 
light  that  quivers  and  quickly  passes,  that  we, 
through  him,  are  able  to  see  it  too,  and  to  experi- 
ence the  old  mysterious  sensations,  restored  by  his 
magic  touch.  For  the  poet  is  emotional,  and  in  a 
few  verses,  even  in  one  verse,  in  a  single  well- 
chosen  epithet,  he  can  vividly  recall  a  forgotten 
picture  to  the  mind  and  restore  a  lost  emotion. 

Matthew  Arnold  probably  knew  very  little  about 
the  serpent  scientifically;  but  in  his  sohtary  walks 
and  communions  with  Nature  he,  no  doubt,  became 
acquainted  with  our  two  common  ophidians,  and 
was  familiar  with  the  sight  of  the  adder,  bright  and 
glistening  in  its  renewed  garment,  reposing  peace- 
fully in  the  spring  sunshine;  seeing  it  thus,  the 
strange  remoteness  and  quietude  of  its  silent  life 
probably  moved  him  and  sank  deeply  into  his  mind. 
This  is  not  the  first  and  most  common  feeling 
of  the  serpent  -  seer  —  the  feeling  which  Matthew 
Arnold  himself  describes  in  a  ringing  couplet: 

Hast  thou  so  rare  a  poison? — let  me  be 
Keener  to  slay  thee  lest  thou  poison  me. 

When  no  such  wildly  improbable  contingency  is 
feared  as  that  the  small  drop  of  rare  poison  in  the 


196    THE  BOOK  OF  A  NATURALIST 

creature's  tooth  may  presently  be  injected  into  the 
beholder's  veins  to  darken  his  life;  when  the  fear 
is  slight  and  momentary,  and  passing  away  gives 
place  to  other  sensations,  he  is  impressed  by  its 
wonderful  quietude,  and  is  not  for  the  moment 
without  the  ancient  belief  in  its  everlastingness  and 
supernatural  character;  and,  if  curiosity  be  too 
great,  if  the  leaf-crackling  and  gravel-crunching 
footsteps  approach  too  near,  to  rouse  and  send  it 
into  hiding,  something  of  compunction  is  felt,  as 
if  an  indignity  had  been  offered: 

O  thoughtless,  why  did  I 
Thu5  violate  thy  slumberous  soHtude? 

In  those  who  have  experienced  such  a  feeling  as 
this  at  sight  of  the  basking  serpent  it  is  most  power- 
fully recalled  by  his  extremely  beautiful  "  Cadmus 
and  Harmonia  " : 

Two  bright  and  aged  snakes, 
Who  once  were  Cadmus  and  Harmonia, 
Bask  in  the  glens,  and  on  the  warm  sea-shore. 
In  breathless  quiet  after  all  their  ills ; 
Nor  do  they  see  their  country,  nor  the  place 
Where  the  Sphinx  lived  among  the  frowning  hills. 
Nor  the  unhappy  palace  of  their  race. 
Nor  Thebes,  nor  the  Ismenus  any  more. 

There  those  two  live  far  in  the  Illyrian  brakes, 

They  had  stayed  long  enough  to  see 

In  Thebes  the  billows  of  calamity 

Over  their  own  dear  children  rolled. 

Curse  upon  curse,  pang  upon  pang, 

For  years,  they  sitting  helpless  in  their  home, 

A  grey  old  man  and  woman. 


THE  SERPENT  IN  LITERATURE  197 

Therefore  they  did  not  end  their  days 

In  sight  of  blood ;  but  were  rapt,  far  away, 

To  where  the  west  wind  plays, 

And  murmurs  of  the  Adriatic  come 

To  those  untrodden  mountain  lawns ;  and  there 

Placed  safely  in  changed  forms,  the  pair 

Wholly  forget  their  first  sad  life,  and  home. 

And  all  that  Theban  woe,  and  stray 

Forever  through  the  glens,  placid  and  dumb. 

How  the  immemorial  fable — the  vain  and  faded 
imaginings  of  thousands  of  years  ago — is  freshened 
into  life  by  the  poet's  genius,  and  the  heart  stirred 
as  by  a  drama  of  the  day  we  live  in  I  But  here  we 
are  concerned  with  the  serpentine  nature  rather 
than  with  the  human  tragedy,  and  to  those  who 
are  familiar  with  the  serpent,  and  have  been  pro- 
foundly impressed  by  it,  there  is  a  rare  beauty 
and  truth  in  that  picture  of  its  breathless  quiet,  its 
endless  placid  dumb  existence  amid  the  flowery 
brakes. 

But  the  first  and  chief  quality  of  the  snake — 
the  sensation  it  excites  in  us — is  its  snakiness,  our 
best  word  for  a  feeling  compounded  of  many 
elements,  not  readily  analysable,  which  has  in  it 
something  of  fear  and  something  of  the  sense  of 
mystery.  I  doubt  if  there  exists  in  our  literature, 
verse  or  prose,  anything  that  revives  this  feeling 
so  strongly  as  Dr.  Gordon  Hake's  ballad  of  the 
dying  serpent-charmer.  "  The  snake-charmer  is  a 
bad  naturalist,"  says  Sir  Joseph  Fayrer,  himself  a 
prince  among  ophiologists ;  it  may  be  so,  and 
prehaps  he  charms  all  the  better  for  it,  and  it  is 
certainly  not  a  lamentable  thing,  since  it  detracts 


198    THE  BOOK  OF  A  NATURALIST 

not  from  the  merit  of  the  poem,  that  Dr.  Hake  is 
a  bad  naturalist,  even  as  Shakespeare  and  Brown- 
ing and  Tennyson  were,  and  draws  his  snake  badly, 
with  venomous  stinging  tongue,  and  flaming  eyes 
that  fascinate  at  too  great  a  distance.  Fables 
notwithstanding,  he  has  with  the  poet's  insight, 
in  a  moment  of  rare  inspiration,  captured  the  very 
illusive  spirit  of  Nature,  to  make  it  pervade  and 
glorify  his  picture.  The  sunny,  brilliant,  declining 
day,  the  joyous  wild  melody  of  birds,  the  low 
whispering  wind,  the  cool  greenness  of  earth, 
where 

The  pool  is  bright  with  glossy  dyes 
And  cast-up  bubbles  of  decay: 

and  everywhere,  hidden  in  grass  and  brake,  re- 
leased at  length  from  the  spell  that  made  them 
powerless,  coming  ever  nearer  and  nearer,  yet  as 
though  they  came  not,  the  subtle,  silent,  watchful 
snakes.  Strangely  real  and  vivid  is  the  picture 
conjured  up;  the  everlasting  life  and  gladness  at 
the  surface,  the  underlying  mystery  and  melan- 
choly— the  failing  power  of  the  old  man  and 
vanishing  incantation;  the  tremendous  retribution 
of  Nature,  her  ministers  of  vengeance  ever  imper- 
ceptibly gliding  nearer. 

Yet  where  his  soul  is  he  must  go, 

albeit  now  only  to  be  mocked  on  the  scene  of  his 
old  beloved  triumphs : 

For  all  that  live  in  brake  and  bough — 
All  know  the  brand  is  on  his  brow. 


THE  SERPENT  IN  LITERATURE  199 

Even  dying  he  cannot  stay  away;  the  fascina- 
tion of  the  lost  power  is  too  strong  on  him;  even 
dying  he  rises  and  goes  forth,  creeping  from  tree  to 
tree,  to  the  famihar  sunht  green  spot  of  earth, 
where 

Bewildered  at  the  pool  he  lies, 

And  sees  as  through  a  serpent's  eyes ; 

his  tawny,  trembling  hand  still  fingering,  his  feeble 
lips  still  quivering,  on  the  useless  flute.  He  cannot 
draw  the  old  potent  music  from  it: 

The  witching  air 
That  tamed  the  snake,  decoyed  the  bird. 
Worried  the  she-wolf  from  her  lair. 

It   is    all   fantasy,   a   mere   juggling    arrangement 

of    brain-distorted    fact    and    ancient    fiction;    the 

essence  of  it  has  no  existence  in  Nature  and  the 

soul  for  the  good  naturalist,  who  dwells  in  a  glass 

house   full   of   intense   light   without    shadow;    but 

the  naturalists  are  not  a  numerous  people,  and  for 

all  others  the  effect  is  like  that  which  Nature  itself 

produces  on  our  twilight  intellect.     It  is  snaky  in 

the  extreme;   reading  it  we  are  actually  there  in 

the   bright    smiling    sunshine;    ours    is    the    failing 

spirit  of  the  worn-out  old  man,  striving  to  drown 

the  hissing  sounds  of  death  in  our  ears,  as  of  a 

serpent  that  hisses.     But  the  lost  virtue  cannot  be 

recovered;  our  eyes  too 

are  swimming  in  a  mist 
That  films  the  earth  like  serpent's  breath; 

and  the  shadows  of  the  waving  boughs  on  the 
sward  appear  like  hollow,  cast-off  coils  rolled  before 


200    THE  BOOK  OF  A  NATURALIST 

the  wind;  fixed,  lidless  eyes  are  watching  us  from 
the  brake;  everywhere  about  us  serpents  lie 
matted  on  the  ground. 

If  serpents  were  not  so  rare,  so  small,  so  elusive, 
in  our  brakes  we  should  no  doubt  have  had  other 
poems  as  good  as  this  about  them  and  the  strange 
feelings  they  wake.  As  it  is,  the  poet,  although  he 
has  the  secret  of  seeing  rightly,  is  in  most  cases 
compelled  to  write  (or  sing)  of  something  he  does 
not  know  personally.  He  cannot  go  to  the  wilds 
of  Guiana  for  the  bush-master,  nor  to  the  Far 
East  in  search  of  the  hamadryad.  Even  the  poor 
little  native  adder  as  a  rule  succeeds  in  escaping 
his  observation.  He  must  go  to  books  for  his 
ness.  He  is  dependent  on  the  natural  historians, 
serpent  or  else  evolve  it  out  of  his  inner  conscious- 
from  Pliny  onwards,  or  to  the  writer  of  fairy-tales: 
a  Countess  d'Aulnoy,  for  example,  or  Meredith, 
in  The  Shaving  of  Shagpat,  or  Keats  his  Lamia, 
an  amazing  creature,  bright  and  cirque-couchant, 
vermilion-spotted  and  yellow  and  green  and  blue; 
also  striped  like  a  zebra,  freckled  like  a  pard,  eyed 
like  a  peacock,  and  barred  with  crimson  and  full 
of  silver  moons.  Lamia  may  be  beautiful  and 
may  please  the  fancy  with  her  many  brilliant 
colours,  her  moons,  stars,  and  what  not,  and 
she  may  even  move  us  with  a  sense  of  the  super- 
natural, but  it  is  not  the  same  kind  of  feeling 
as  that  experienced  when  we  see  a  serpent.  That 
comes  of  the  mythical  faculty  in  us,  and  the  poet 
who   would   reproduce   it  must  himself  go  to  the 


THE  SERPENT  IN  LITERATURE  201 

serpent,  even  as  the  Druids  did  for  their  sacred 
nadder-stone. 

In  prose  literature  the  best  presentation  of 
serpent  life  known  to  me  is  that  of  Oliver  Wendell 
Holmes:  and  being  the  best,  in  fiction  at  all 
events,  I  am  tempted  to  write  of  it  at  some 
length. 

Now,  very  curiously,  although,  as  we  have  just 
seen,  the  incorrect  drawing  takes  nothing  from 
the  charm  and,  in  one  sense,  from  the  truth  of 
Dr.  Hake's  picture,  we  no  sooner  turn  to  Elsie 
Tenner  than  we  find  ourselves  crossing  over  to 
the  side  of  the  good  naturalist,  with  apologies  for 
having  insulted  him,  to  ask  the  loan  of  his  fierce 
light — for  this  occasion  only.  Ordinarily  in  con- 
sidering an  excellent  romance,  we  are  rightly 
careless  about  the  small  inaccuracies  with  regard 
to  matters  of  fact  which  may  appear  in  it;  for  the 
writer  who  is  able  to  produce  a  work  of  art  must 
not  and  cannot  be  a  specialist  or  a  microscopist, 
but  one  who  views  Nature  as  the  ordinary  man 
does,  at  a  distance  and  as  a  whole,  with  the  vision 
common  to  all  men,  and  the  artist's  insight  added. 
Dr.  Holmes's  work  is  an  exception;  since  it  is  a 
work  of  art  of  some  excellence,  yet  cannot  be  read 
in  this  tolerant  spirit;  we  distinctly  refuse  to 
overlook  its  distortions  of  fact  and  false  inferences 
in  the  province  of  zoology;  and  the  author  has 
only  himself  to  blame  for  this  uncomfortable 
temper  of  mind  in  his  reader. 

The  story  of  the  New  England   serpent-girl  is 


202    THE  BOOK  OF  A  NATURALIST 

in  its  essence  a  romance;  the  author  thought 
proper  to  cast  it  in  the  form  -of  a  reahstic  novel, 
and  to  make  the  teller  of  the  story  a  clear-headed, 
calm,  critical  onlooker  of  mature  age,  one  of  the 
highest  attainments  in  biological  science  who  is 
nothing  if  not  philosophical. 

How  strange  that  this  superior  person  should 
select  and  greatly  exaggerate  for  the  purposes  of 
his  narrative  one  of  the  stupid  prejudices  and 
superstitions  of  the  vulgar  he  is  supposed  to 
despise!  Like  the  vulgar  who  are  without  light 
he  hates  a  snake,  and  it  is  to  him,  as  to  the  meanest 
peasant,  typical  of  the  spirit  of  evil  and  a  thing 
accurst.  This  unphilosophical  temper  (the  super- 
stitious belief  in  the  serpent's  enmity  to  man), 
with  perhaps  too  great  a  love  of  the  picturesque, 
have  inspired  some  of  the  passages  in  the  book 
which  make  the  snakist  smile.  Let  me  quote  one, 
in  which  the  hero's  encounter  with  a  huge  Crotalus 
in  a  mountain  cave  is  described. 

His  look  was  met  by  the  glitter  of  two  diamond  eyes, 
small,  sharp,  cold,  shining  out  of  the  darkness,  but  ghding 
with  a  smooth  and  steady  motion  towards  the  light,  and 
himself.  He  stood  fixed,  struck  dumb,  staring  back  into 
them  with  dilating  pupils  and  sudden  numbness  of  fear 
that  cannot  move,  as  in  a  terror  of  dreams.  The  two 
sparks  of  fire  came  forward  until  they  grew  to  circles  of 
flame,  and  all  at  once  lifted  themselves  up  in  angry  sur- 
prise. Then  for  the  first  time  trilled  in  Mr.  Barnard's  ears 
the  dreadful  sound  which  nothing  that  breathes,  be  it 
man  or  brute,  can  hear  unmoved — the  loud,  long  stinging 
whir,  as  the  huge  thick-bodied  reptile  shook  his  many- 
jointed  rattle,  and  adjusted  his  loops  for  the  fatal  stroke. 


THE  SERPENT  IN  LITERATURE  203 

His  eyes  were  drawn  as  with  magnets  towards  the  circle 
of  flame.  His  ears  rung  as  in  the  overture  to  the  swooning 
dream  of  chloroform. 

And  so  on,  until  Elsie  appears  on  the  scene  and 
rescues  the  too  easily  fascinated  schoolmaster. 

The  writing  is  fine,  but  to  admire  it  one  must 
be  unconscious  of  its  exaggeration;  or,  in  other 
words,  ignorant  of  the  serpent  as  it  is  in  Nature. 
Even  worse  than  the  exaggerations  are  the  half- 
poetic,  half-scientific  tirades  against  the  creature's 
ugliness  and  malignity. 

It  was  surely  one  of  destiny's  strange  pranks  to 
bestow  such  a  subject  on  the  "  Autocrat  of  the 
Breakfast  Table,"  and,  it  may  be  added,  to  put  it 
in  him  to  treat  it  from  the  scientific  standpoint. 
I  cannot  but  wish  that  this  conception  had  been 
Hawthorne's;  for  though  Hawthorne  wrote  no 
verse,  he  had  in  large  measure  the  poetic  spirit 
to  which  such  a  subject  appeals  most  powerfully. 
Possibly  it  would  have  inspired  him  to  something 
beyond  his  greatest  achievement.  Certainly  not 
in  The  Scarlet  Letter,  The  Home  of  the  Seven 
Gables,  nor  in  any  of  his  numerous  shorter  tales 
did  he  possess  a  theme  so  admirably  suited  to 
his  sombre  and  beautiful  genius  as  the  tragedy 
of  Elsie  Venner.  Furthermore,  the  exaggerations 
and  inaccuracies  which  are  unpardonable  in  Holmes 
would  not  have  appeared  as  blemishes  in  Haw- 
thorne; for  he  would  have  viewed  the  animal 
world  and  the  peculiar  facts  of  the  case — the 
intervolved   human   and   serpentine    nature   of   the 


204    THE  BOOK  OF  A  NATURALIST 

heroine — from  the  standpoint  of  the  ordinary  man 
who  is  not  an  ophiologist;  the  true  and  the  false 
about  the  serpent  would  have  been  blended  in  his 
tale  as  they  exist  blended  in  the  popular  imagina- 
tion, and  the  illusion  would  have  been  more  perfect 
and  the  effect  greater. 

Elsie's  biographer  appears  to  have  found  his 
stock  of  materials  bearing  on  the  main  point  too 
slender  for  his  purpose,  and  to  fill  out  his  work  he 
is  obliged  to  be  very  discursive.  Meanwhile,  the 
reader's  interest  in  the  chief  figure  is  so  intense 
that  in  following  it  the  best  breakfast-table  talk 
comes  in  as  a  mere  impertinence.  There  is  no 
other  interest;  among  the  other  personages  of  the 
story  Elsie  appears  like  a  living  palpitating  being 
among  shadows.  One  finds  it  difiicult  to  recall  the 
names  of  the  scholarly  father  in  his  library;  the 
good  hero  and  his  lady-love;  the  pale  school- 
mistress, and  the  melodramatic  villain  on  his 
black  horse,  to  say  nothing  of  the  vulgar  villagers 
and  the  farmer,  some  of  them  supposed  to  be 
comic.  If  we  except  the  rattlesnake  mountain, 
and  the  old  nurse  with  her  arjimal-like  affection 
and  fidelity,  there  is  no  atmosphere,  or,  if  an 
atmosphere,  one  which  is  certainly  wrong  and 
produces  a  sense  of  incongruity.  A  better  artist 
— Hawthorne,  to  wit — would  have  used  the  painful 
mystery  of  Elsie's  life,  and  the  vague  sense  of  some 
nameless  impending  horror,  not  merely  to  put 
sombre  patches  here  and  there  on  an  otherwise 
sunny  landscape,  but  to  give  a  tone  to  the  whole 


THE  SERPENT  IN  LITERATURE  205 

picture,  and  the  effect  would  have  been  more 
harmonious.  This  inabihty  of  the  author  to  mix 
and  shade  his  colours  shows  itself  in  the  passages 
descriptive  of  Elsie  herself;  he  insists  a  great  deal 
too  much  on  her  ophidian,  or  crotaline,  character- 
itics — her  stillness  and  silence  and  sinuous  motions; 
her  bizarre  taste  in  barred  gowns;  her  drowsy- 
condition  in  cold  weather,  with  intensity  of  life 
and  activity  during  the  solstitial  heats  —  even 
her  dangerous  impulse  to  strike  with  her  teeth 
when  angered.  These  traits  require  to  be  touched 
upon  very  lightly  indeed;  as  it  is,  the  pro- 
found pity  and  love,  with  a  mixture  of  horror 
which  was  the  effect  sought,  come  too  near 
to  repulsion.  While  on  this  point  it  may  be 
mentioned  that  the  author  frequently  speaks  of 
the  slight  sibilation  in  Elsie's  speech — a  strange 
blunder  for  the  man  of  science  to  fall  into,  since 
he  does  not  make  Elsie  like  any  snake,  or  like 
snakes  in  general,  but  like  the  Crotaliis  durissus 
only,  the  New  England  rattlesnake,  which  does  not 
hiss,  like  some  other  venomous  serpents  that  are 
not  provided  with  an  instrument  of  sound  in 
their  tails. 

After  all  is  said,  the  conception  of  Elsie  Venner 
is  one  so  unique  and  wonderful,  and  so  greatly 
moves  our  admiration  and  pity  with  her  strange 
beauty,  her  inarticulate  passion,  her  unspeakably 
sad  destiny,  that  in  spite  of  many  and  most  serious 
faults  the  book  must  ever  remain  a  classic  in  our 
literature,  among  romances  a  gem  that  has  not  its 


206     THE  BOOK  OF  A  NATURALIST 

like,  perennial  in  interest  as  Nature  itself,  and 
Nature's  serpent. 

If  it  had  only  been  left  for  ever  unfinished,  or 
had  ended  differently!  For  it  is  impossible  for 
one  w'ho  admires  it  to  pardon  the  pitifully  common- 
place and  untrue  denouement.  Never  having  read 
a  review  of  the  book  I  do  not  know  what  the 
professional  critic  or  the  fictionist  would  say  on 
this  point;  he  might  say  that  the  story  could  not 
properly  have  ended  differently;  that,  from  an 
artistic  point  of  view,  it  was  necessary  that  the 
girl  should  be  made  to  outgrow  the  malign  influence 
which  she  had  so  strangely  inherited;  that  this 
was  rightly  brought  about  by  making  her  fall  in 
love  with  the  good  and  handsome  young  school- 
master— the  effect  of  the  love,  or  "  dull  ache  of 
passion,"  being  so  great  as  to  deliver  and  kill  her 
at  the  same  time. 

If  the  interest  of  the  story  had  all  been  in  the 
dull  and  pious  villagers,  their  loves  and  marriages 
and  trivial  affairs,  then  it  would  have  seemed  right 
that  Elsie,  who  made  them  all  so  uncomfortable, 
should  be  sent  from  the  village,  which  was  no 
place  for  her,  to  Heaven  by  the  shortest  and  most 
convenient  route.  Miserably  weak  is  that  dying 
scene  with  its  pretty  conventional  pathos;  the 
ending  somewhat  after  the  fashion  set  by  Fouque, 
which  so  many  have  followed  since  his  time — the 
childish  "  Now-I-have-got-a-soul "  transformation 
scene  with  which  Fouque  himself  spoilt  one  of  the 
most  beautiful  things  ever  written.    The  end  is  not 


THE  SERPENT  IN  LITERATURE  207 

in  harmony  with  the  conception  of  Elsie,  of  a  being 
in  whom  the  human  and  serpentine  natures  were 
indissolubly  joined;  and  no  accident,  not  assuredly 
that  "  dull  ache  of  passion,"  could  have  killed  the 
one  without  destroying  the  other. 

The  author  was  himself  conscious  of  the  in- 
adequacy of  the  reason  he  gave  for  the  change 
and  deliverance.  He  no  doubt  asked  himself  the 
following  question :  "  Will  the  reader  believe  that 
a  fit  of  dumb  passion,  however  intense,  was  sufficient 
to  cause  one  of  Elsie's  splendid  physique  and 
vitality  to  droop  and  wither  into  the  grave  like 
any  frail  consumptive  schoolgirl  who  loves  and 
whose  love  is  not  requited?"  He  recognises  and 
is  led  to  apologise  for  its  weakness;  and,  finally, 
still  unsatisfied,  advances  an  alternative  theory, 
which  is  subtle  and  physiological — a  sop  thrown  to 
those  among  his  readers  who,  unlike  the  proverbial 
ass  engaged  in  chewing  hay,  meditate  on  what  they 
are  taking  in.  The  alternative  theory  is,  that  an 
animal's  life  is  of  short  duration  compared  with 
man's;  that  the  serpent  in  Elsie,  having  arrived  at 
the  end  of  its  natural  term,  died  out  of  the  human 
life  with  which  it  had  been  intervolved,  leaving  her 
still  in  the  flower  of  youth  and  wholly  human; 
but  that  this  decay  and  death  in  her  affected  her 
with  so  great  a  shock  that  her  own  death  followed 
immediately  on  her  deliverance. 

If  the  first  explanation  was  weak  the  second  will 
not  bear  looking  at.  Some  animals  have  compara- 
tively short  lives,  as,  for  instance,  the  earthworm. 


208    THE  BOOK  OF  A  NATUKALIST 

canary,  dog,  mouse,  etc.;  but  the  serpent  is  not  of 
them;  on  the  contrary,  the  not  too  numerous  facts 
we  possess  which  relate  to  the  comparative  longevity 
of  animals  give  support  to  the  universal  belief  that 
the  reptilians — tortoise,  lizard,  and  serpent — are 
extremely  long-lived. 

Now  this  fact  —  namely,  that  science  and 
popular  belief  are  at  one  in  the  matter — might  very 
well  have  suggested  to  the  author  a  more  suitable 
ending  to  the  story  of  Elsie  than  the  one  he  made 
choice  of.  I  will  even  be  so  venturesome  as  to  say 
what  that  ending  should  be.  Let  us  imagine  the 
girl  capable  of  love,  even  of  "  a  dull  ache  of  passion," 
doomed  by  the  serpent-nature  in  her,  which  was 
physical  if  anything,  to  a  prolonged  existence, 
serpent-hke  in  its  changes,  waxing  and  waning, 
imperceptibly  becoming  dim  as  with  age  in  the 
wintry  season,  only  to  recover  the  old  brilliant 
beauty  and  receive  an  access  of  strength  in  each 
recurring  spring.  Let  us  imagine  that  the  fame  of 
one  so  strange  in  life  and  history  and  of  so  excellent 
an  appearance  was  bruited  far  and  wide,  that  many 
a  man  who  sought  her  village  merely  to  gratify  an 
idle  curiosity  loved  and  remained  to  woo,  but 
feared  at  the  last  and  left  her  with  a  wound  in  his 
heart.  Finally,  let  us  imagine  that  as  her  relatives 
and  friends,  and  all  who  had  known  her  intimately, 
stricken  with  years  and  worn  with  grief,  faded  one 
by  one  into  the  tomb,  she  grew  more  lonely  and 
apart  from  her  fellow-creatures,  less  human  in  her 
life  and  pursuits;  joy  and  sorrow  and  all  human 


THE  SERPENT  IN  LITERATURE  209 

failings  touching  her  only  in  a  faint  vague  way,  like 
the  memories  of  her  childhood,  of  her  lost  kindred, 
and  of  her  passion.  And  after  long  years,  during 
which  she  has  been  a  wonder  and  mystery  to  the 
villagers,  on  one  of  her  solitary  rambles  on  the 
mountain  occurs  the  catastrophe  which  the  author 
has  described — the  fall  of  the  huge  overhanging 
ledge  of  rock  under  which  the  serpent  brood  had 
their  shelter — burying  her  for  ever  with  her  ophidian 
relations,  and  thus  bringing  to  an  end  the  strange 
story  of  "  Elsie  Vernier  Infelix." 


XVIII 

WASPS 

One  rough  day  in  early  autumn  I  paused  in  my 
walk  in  a  Surrey  orchard  to  watch  a  curious  scene 
in  insect  life — a  pretty  little  insect  comedy  I 
might  have  called  it  had  it  not  brought  back  to 
remembrance  old  days  when  my  mind  was  clouded 
with  doubts,  and  the  ways  of  certain  insects, 
especially  of  wasps,  were  much  in  my  thoughts. 
For  we  live  through  and  forget  many  a  tempest 
that  shakes  us;  but  long  afterwards  a  very  little 
thing — the  scent  of  a  flower,  the  cry  of  a  wild 
bird,  even  the  sight  of  an  insect — may  serve  to 
bring  it  vividly  back  and  to  revive  a  feehng  that 
seemed  dead  and  gone. 

In  the  orchard  there  was  an  old  pear-tree  which 
produced  very  large  late  pears,  and  among  the 
fruit  the  September  wind  had  shaken  down  that 
morning  there  was  one  over-ripe  in  which  the 
wasps  had  eaten  a  deep  cup-shaped  cavity.  Inside 
the  cavity  six  or  seven  wasps  were  revelling  in  the 
sweet  juice,  lying  flat  and  motionless,  crowded 
together.  Outside  the  cavity,  on  the  pear,  thirty  or 
forty  blue-bottle  flies  had  congregated,   and  were 

210 


WASPS  211 

hungry  for  the  juice,  but  apparently  afraid  to 
begin  feeding  on  it;  they  were  standing  round  in 
a  compact  crowd,  the  hindmost  pressing  on  and 
crowding  over  the  others:  but  still,  despite  the 
pressure,  the  foremost  row  of  flies  refused  to 
advance  beyond  the  rim  of  the  eaten-out  part. 
From  time  to  time  one  of  a  more  venturesome 
spirit  would  put  out  his  proboscis  and  begin 
sucking  at  the  edge;  the  slight  tentative  move- 
ment would  instantly  be  detected  by  a  wasp,  and 
he  would  turn  quickly  round  to  face  the  presump- 
tuous fly,  lifting  his  wnigs  in  a  threatening  manner, 
and  the  fly  would  take  his  proboscis  off  the  rim  of 
the  cup.  Occasionally  hunger  would  overcome 
their  fear;  a  general  movement  of  the  flies  would 
take  place,  and  several  would  begin  sucking  at  the 
same  time;  then  the  wasp,  seeming  to  think  that 
more  than  a  mere  menacing  look  or  gesture  was 
required  in  such  a  case,  would  start  up  with  an 
angrj^  buzz,  and  away  the  whole  crowd  of  flies 
would  go  to  whirl  round  and  round  in  a  little  blue 
cloud  with  a  loud,  excited  hum,  only  to  settle 
again  in  a  few  moments  on  the  big  yellow  pear 
and  begin  crowding  round  the  pit  as  before. 

Never  once  during  the  time  I  spent  observing 
them  did  the  guardian  wasp  relax  his  vigilance. 
When  he  put  his  head  down  to  suck  with  the  others 
his  eyes  still  appeared  able  to  reflect  every  move- 
ment in  the  surrounding  crowd  of  flies  into  his 
little  spiteful  brain.  They  could  crawl  round  and 
crawl  round   as  much   as  they   liked  on   the   very 


212     THE  BOOK  OF  A  NATURALIST 

rim,  but  let  one  begin  to  suck  and  he  was  up  in 
arms  in  a  moment. 

The  question  that  occurred  to  me  was:  How 
much  of  all  this  behaviour  could  be  set  down  to 
instinct  and  how  much  to  intelhgence  and  temper? 
The  wasp  certainly  has  a  waspish  disposition,  a 
quick  resentment,  and  is  most  spiteful  and  tyran- 
nical towards  other  inoffensive  insects.  He  is  a 
slayer  and  devourer  of  them,  too,  as  well  as  a 
feeder  with  them  on  nectar  and  sweet  juices;  but 
when  he  kills,  and  when  the  solitarj^  wasp  paralyses 
spiders,  caterpillars,  and  various  insects  and  stores 
them  in  cells  to  provide  a  horrid  food  for  the 
grubs  which  will  eventually  hatch  from  the  still 
undeposited  eggs,  the  wasp  then  acts  automatically, 
or  by  instinct,  and  is  driven,  as  it  were,  by  an 
extraneous  force.  In  a  case  hke  the  one  of  the 
wasp's  behaviour  on  the  pear,  and  in  innumerable 
other  cases  which  one  may  read  of  or  see  for  him- 
self, there  appears  to  be  a  good  deal  of  the  element 
of  mind.  Doubtless  it  exists  in  all  insects,  but 
differs  in  degree;  and  some  Orders  appear  to  be 
more  intelligent  than  others.  Thus,  any  person 
accustomed  to  watch  insects  closely  and  note 
their  little  acts  would  probably  say  that  there  is 
less  mind  in  the  beetles  and  more  in  the  Hymen- 
optera  than  in  other  insects;  also  that  in  the  last- 
named  Order  the  wasps  rank  highest. 

The  scene  in  the  orchard  also  served  to  remind 
me  of  a  host  of  wasps,  greatly  varying  in  size, 
colour,    and    habits,    although    in    their    tyrannical 


WASPS  213 

temper  very  much  alike,  which  I  had  been  accus- 
tomed to  observe  in  boyhood  and  youth  in  a 
distant  region.  They  attracted  me  more,  perhaps, 
than  any  other  insects  on  account  of  their  singular 
and  brilliant  coloration  and  their  formidable  char- 
acter. They  were  beautiful  but  painful  creatures; 
the  pain  they  caused  me  was  first  bodily,  when  I 
interfered  in  their  concerns  or  handled  them  care- 
lessly, and  was  soon  over;  later  it  was  mental  and 
more  enduring. 

To  the  very  young  colour  is  undoubtedly  the 
most  attractive  quality  in  nature,  and  these  insects 
were  enamelled  in  colours  that  made  them  the 
rivals  of  butterflies  and  shining  metallic  beetles. 
There  were  wasps  with  black  and  yellow  rings  and 
with  black  and  scarlet  rings;  wasps  of  a  uniform 
golden  brown;  others  like  our  demoiselle  dragon- 
fly that  looked  as  if  fresh  from  a  bath  of  splendid 
metalhc  blue;  others  with  steel-blue  bodies  and 
bright  red  wings;  others  with  crimson  bodies, 
yellow  head  and  legs,  and  bright  blue  wings;  others 
black  and  gold,  with  pink  head  and  legs;  and  so 
on  through  scores  and  hundreds  of  species  "  as 
Nature  list  to  play  with  her  little  ones,"  until  one 
marvelled  at  so  great  a  variety,  so  many  singular 
and  beautiful  contrasts,  produced  by  half-a-dozen 
brilliant  colours. 

It  was  when  I  began  to  find  out  the  ways  of 
wasps  with  other  insects  on  which  they  nourish 
their  young  that  my  pleasure  in  them  became 
mixed  with  pain.     For  they  did  not,  like  spiders, 


214     THE  BOOK  OV  A  NATURALIST 

ants,  dragon-flies,  tiger-beetles,  and  other  rapacious 
kinds,  kill  their  prey  at  once,  but  paralysed  it  by 
stinging  its  nerve  centres  to  make  it  incapable  of 
resistance,  and  stored  it  in  a  closed  cell,  so  that  the 
grub  to  be  hatched  by  and  by  should  have  fresh 
meat  to  feed  on — not  fresh-killed  but  live  meat. 

Thus  the  old  vexed  question — How  reconcile 
these  facts  with  the  idea  of  a  beneficent  Being  who 
designed  it  all — did  not  come  to  me  from  reading, 
nor  from  teachers,  since  I  had  none,  but  was  thrust 
upon  me  by  nature  itself.  In  spite,  however,  of  its 
having  come  in  that  sharp  way,  I,  like  many  another, 
succeeded  in  putting  the  painful  question  from  me 
and  keeping  to  the  old  traditions.  The  noise  of  the 
battle  of  Evolution,  which  had  been  going  on  for 
years,  hardly  reached  me;  it  was  but  a  faintly 
heard  murmur,  as  of  storms  immeasurably  far  away 
"  on  alien  shores."     This  could  not  last. 

One  day  an  elder  brother,  on  his  return  from 
travel  in  distant  lands,  put  a  copy  of  the  famous 
Origin  of  Species  in  my  hands  and  advised  me  to 
read  it.  When  I  had  done  so,  he  asked  me  what  I 
thought  of  it.  "It's  false!"  I  exclaimed  in  a 
passion,  and  he  laughed,  little  knowing  how  import- 
ant a  matter  this  was  to  me,  and  told  me  I  could 
have  the  book  if  I  liked.  I  took  it  without  thanks 
and  read  it  again  and  thought  a  good  deal  about  it, 
and  was  nevertheless  able  to  resist  its  teachings 
for  years,  solely  because  I  could  not  endure  to  part 
with  a  philosophy  of  life,  if  I  may  so  describe  it, 
which  could  not  logically  be  held,  if  Darwin  was 


WASPS  215 

right,  and  without  which  life  would  not  be  worth 
having.  So  I  thought  at  the  time;  it  is  a  most 
common  delusion  of  the  human  mind,  for  we  see 
that  the  good  which  is  so  much  to  us  is  taken 
forcibly  away,  and  that  we  get  over  our  loss  and 
go  on  very  much  as  before. 

It  is  curious  to  see  now  that  Darwin  himself 
gave  the  first  comfort  to  those  who,  convinced 
against  their  will,  were  anxious  to  discover  some 
way  of  escape  which  would  not  involve  the  total 
abandonment  of  their  cherished  beliefs.  At  all 
events,  he  suggested  the  idea,  which  religious  minds 
were  quick  to  seize  upon,  that  the  new  explanation 
of  the  origin  of  the  innumerable  forms  of  life  which 
people  the  earth  from  one  or  a  few  primordial 
organisms  afforded  us  a  nobler  conception  of  the 
creative  mind  than  the  traditional  one.  It  does  not 
bear  examination,  probably  it  originated  in  the 
author's  kindly  and  compassionate  feelings  rather 
than  in  his  reasoning  faculties;  but  it  gave  tem- 
porary rehef  and  served  its  purpose.  Indeed,  to 
some,  to  very  many  perhaps,  it  still  serves  as  a 
refuge — this  poor,  hastily  made  straw  shelter,  which 
lets  in  the  rain  and  wind,  but  seems  better  to  them 
than  no  shelter  at  all. 

But  of  the  intentionally  consoling  passages  in 
the  book,  the  most  impressive  to  me  was  that  in 
which  he  refers  to  instincts  and  adaptation  such 
as  those  of  the  wasp,  which  writers  on  natural 
history  subjects  are  accustomed  to  describe,  in  a 
way  that  seems  quite  just  and  natural,  as  diabolical 


216    THE  BOOK  OF  A  NATURALIST 

That,  for  example,  of  the  young  cuckoo  ejecting 
its  foster-brothers  from  the  nest;  of  slave-making 
ants,  and  of  the  larvae  of  the  Ichneumonidae  feeding 
on  the  live  tissues  of  the  caterpillars  in  whose  bodies 
they  have  been  hatched.  He  said  that  it  was  not 
perhaps  a  logical  conclusion,  but  it  seemed  to  him 
more  satisfactory  to  regard  such  things  "  not  as 
specially  endowed  or  created  instincts,  but  as  small 
consequences  of  one  general  law" — the  law  of 
variation  and  the  survival  of  the  fittest. 


XIX 

BEAUTIFUL  HAWK-MOTHS 

In  the  late  summer  I  often  walk  by  flowery  places 
of  an  evening,  or  at  some  late  hours  by  moonlight, 
in  the  hope  of  seeing  that  rare  night-wanderer,  the 
death's-head  moth;  but  the  hope  is  now  an  old 
one,  so  worn  and  faded  that  it  is  hardly  more  than 
the  memory  of  a  hope.  Why,  I  have  asked  myself 
times  without  number,  am  I  so  luckless  in  my 
quest  of  an  insect  which  is  not  only  a  large  object 
to  catch  the  eye  but  has  a  voice,  or  sound,  as  well 
to  attract  a  seeker's  attention?  On  consulting 
others  on  this  point,  some  of  them  lepidopterists 
and  diligent  collectors,  they  have  assured  me  that 
they  have  never  once  had  a  glimpse  of  the  living 
free  Acherontia  atropas  going  about  on  his  flowery 
business. 

A  few  years  ago,  while  on  a  ramble  in  a  southern 
county,  I  heard  of  a  gentleman  in  the  neighbour- 
hood who  had  a  taste  for  adders  and  death's-head 
moths  and  was  accustomed  to  collect  and  keep 
them  in  considerable  numbers  in  his  house.  My 
own  partiality  for  adders  induced  me  to  call  on 
him,  and  we  exchanged  experiences  and  had  some 
ai7 


218    THE  BOOK  OF  A  NATURALIST 

pleasant  talk  about  these  shy,  beautiful  and  (to 
us)  harmless  creatures.  I  am  speaking  of  adders 
now;  I  had  not  yet  heard  of  his  predilection  for 
the  great  moth;  when  he  spoke  of  this  second 
favourite  I  begged  him  to  show  me  a  specimen  or 
two.  Turning  to  his  wife,  who  was  present  and 
shared  his  queer  tastes,  he  told  her  to  go  and  get 
me  some.  She  left  the  room,  and  returned  by  and 
by  with  a  large  cardboard  box,  such  as  milliners 
and  dressmakers  use;  removing  the  lid,  she  raised 
it  above  my  head  and  emptied  the  contents  over 
me  —  a  shower  of  living,  shivering,  fluttering, 
squeaking  or  creaking  death's-head  moths!  In  a 
moment  they  were  all  over  me,  from  my  head 
right  down  to  my  feet,  not  attempting  to  fly,  but 
running,  quivering,  and  shaldng  their  wings,  so  that 
I  had  a  bath  and  feast  of  them. 

At  that  moment  it  mattered  not  that  I  was  a 
stranger  there,  in  the  library  or  study  of  a  country 
house,  with  those  two  looking  on  and  laughing  at 
my  plight.  It  is  what  we  feel  that  matters:  I 
might  have  been  standing  in  some  wilderness  never 
trodden  by  human  foot,  myself  an  unhuman  solitary, 
and  merely  by  willing  it  I  had  drawn  those  beautiful 
beings  of  the  dark  to  me,  charming  them  as  with 
a  flowery  fragrance  from  their  secret  hiding-places 
in  a  dim  world  of  leaves  to  gather  upon  and  cover 
me  over  with  their  downy,  trembling,  mottled  grey 
and  rich  yellow  velvet  wings. 

Even  this  fascinating  experience  did  not  wholly 
satisfy  me:  nothing,  I  said,  would  satisfy  me  short 


BEAUTIFUL  HAWK  -  MOTHS       219 

of  seeing  the  undomesticated  moth  living  his  proper 
life  in  the  open  air.  He  smiled  and  shook  his  head. 
Useless  to  look  for  such  a  thing!  He  had  never 
seen  it  and  didn't  believe  that  I  ever  would;  he 
couldn't  say  why.  He  got  his  moths  by  paying 
sixpence  apiece  for  the  chrysahds  to  workmen  in 
the  potato  fields  and  rearing  them  himself;  in 
this  way  he  obtained  as  many  as  he  wanted — sixty 
or  seventy  or  eighty  every  year. 

I  can  only  hope  that  time  will  prove  him  wrong, 
and  I  go  on  as  before  haunting  the  flowery  places 
in  the  last  light  of  day  and  when  the  moon  shines. 

Another  surprisingly  beautiful  moth  which,  they 
say,  is  as  rarely  seen  as  the  Acherontia  is  the  crimson 
underwing.  Once  only  have  I  been  able  to  observe 
this  lovely  moth  flying  about — and  it  was  in  a 
room!  I  was  staying  with  friends  at  the  Anglers' 
Inn  at  Bransbury  on  the  Test  when  one  evening 
after  the  lamps  were  lit  the  moth  appeared  in  our 
sitting-room  and  remained  two  days  and  nights 
with  us  in  spite  of  our  kind  persecutions  and  artful 
plans  for  his  expulsion.  It  was  early  September, 
with  mild  sunny  days  and  misty  or  wet  nights,  and 
in  the  evening,  when  the  room  was  very  warm,  we 
would  throw  the  windows  and  doors  open,  thinking 
of  the  delicious  relief  it  would  be  for  our  prisoner 
to  pass  out  of  that  superheated  atmosphere,  that 
painful  brightness,  into  his  own  wide,  wet  world, 
its  darkness  and  silence  and  fragrance,  and  a 
mysterious  signal  wafted  to  him  from  a  distance 
out  of  clouds  of  whispering  leaves,  from  one  there 


220    THE  BOOK  OF  A  NATURALIST 

waiting  for  him.  Then  with  fans  and  hats  and 
folded  newspapers  we  would  try  to  fan  him  out, 
but  it  only  made  him  wild — wild  as  a  newly  caught 
linnet  in  a  cage;  he  would  dart  hither  and  thither 
about  the  room,  now  among  us,  now  over  our 
heads,  still  refusing  to  go  out.  We  didn't  want 
him  to  go,  so  that  after  religiously  doing  our  best 
for  him  we  were  pleased  to  have  him  stay.  We 
even  tried  to  make  him  happy  as  our  guest  by 
offering  him  honey  and  golden-syrup  and  placing 
flowers  in  vases  all  about  the  room,  but  he  would 
accept  nothing  from  us. 

At  rest  on  a  wall  or  curtain  he  appeared  as  a 
grey  triangular  patch,  ornamented,  when  viewed 
closely,  with  mottlings  of  a  dusky  hue;  but  on 
lifting  his  fore-wings,  the  lovely  crimson  colour  of 
the  underwings  was  displayed.  No  crimson  flower, 
no  sea-shell,  no  sunset  cloud,  can  show  a  hue  to 
compare  in  loveliness  with  it.  Another  hidden 
beauty  was  revealed  when  the  lamps  were  lighted 
to  start  him  flying  up  and  down  the  room  over  our 
heads,  always  keeping  close  to  the  low  ceiling.  He 
then  had  a  surprisingly  bird-like  appearance,  and 
the  under-surface  of  the  bird-shaped  body  being 
pure  white  and  downy  he  was  like  a  miniature 
martin  with  crimson  on  the  wings.  He  was  then  at 
his  best,  our  "elf-darling";  no  one  dared  touch  him 
even  with  a  finger-tip  lest  that  exquisitely  delicate 
down  should  be  injured.  I  have  frequently  had 
humming-birds  blunder  into  a  room  where  I  sat  and 
fly  round  seeking  an  exit,  but  never  one  of  these. 


BEAUTIFUL  HAWK  -  MOTHS       221 

for  all  the  glittering  scale-like  feathers,  seemed  so 
perfectly  beautiful  as  our  dark  crimson  underwing. 

On  the  third  evening,  to  our  regret,  we  succeeded 
in  getting  him  to  fly  out. 

Now,  we  asked,  what  had  the  books  -  about- 
moths-makers  to  tell  us  concerning  this  particular 
elf -darling?  I  proceeded  to  get  out  my  work  on 
Butterflies  and  Moths  —  one  recently  published. 
It  gave  a  description  of  the  insect — colour  and 
measurements;  then,  under  the  heading  of  "general 
remarks,"  came  the  following:  "  This  moth  will 
never  be  seen,  but  by  judicious  sugaring  as  many 
as  half-a-dozen  specimens  may  be  obtained  in  a 
single  night."  That  was  all  I  It  was  a  shock  to 
us,  and  we  wondered  whether  any  of  oiu*  naturalists 
had  tried  the  plan  of  "  judicious  sugaring "  to 
obtain  a  few  specimens  of  that  rarer,  more  elusive 
creature,  the  fairy,  before  its  final  extinction  in 
Britain. 

The  memory  of  those  two  evenings  with  a 
crimson  underwing  brings  to  mind  just  now  yet 
another  enchanting  evening  I  spent  in  the  valley 
of  the  Wiltshire  Avon.  It  was  June,  just  before 
hay-cutting,  and  for  most  of  the  time,  until  the 
last  faint  underglow  had  faded  and  the  stars  were 
out,  I  was  standing  motionless,  knee-deep  in  the 
plumy  seeded  grasses,  watching  the  ghost-moths, 
as  I  had  never  seen  them  before,  in  scores  and  in 
hundreds,  dimly  visible  in  their  whiteness  all  over 
the  dusky  meadow,  engaged  in  their  quaint,  beauti- 
ful, rhythmic  love-dance.     It  was  the  wide  silent 


222    THE  BOOK  OF  A  NATURALIST 

night  and  the  moths'  strange  motions  and  white- 
ness in  the  dark  that  gave  it  a  magic  on  that 
occasion.  Seen  by  daylight  or  lamplight  it  is  Lord 
de  Tabley's  "  owl-white  moth  with  mealy  wings," 
or  one  of  them,  and  nothing  more. 

Moths  are  mostly  haunters  of  the  twilight  and 
the  dark,  but  we  have  one  of  the  larger  and  highly 
distinguished  species,  the  humming  -  bird  hawk- 
moth,  which  flies  abroad  by  day,  even  during  the 
hottest  seasons,  and  visits  our  gardens  in  the  full 
blaze  of  noon.  It  has  no  glory  of  colour  like  the 
crimson  underwing  and  death's-head  moth,  nor 
ghostly  white,  yet  it  outshines  all  the  others  in 
beauty  and  in  the  sense  of  wonder  and  delight  its 
appearance  produces.  Here  I  will  quote  part  of  a 
letter  written  to  me  some  years  ago  by  a  lady  who 
wanted  to  know  if  I  could  identify  an  insect  she 
was  particularly  interested  in,  from  her  description. 
She  had  seen  it  when  a  child  in  the  garden  at  her 
early  home  in  Wiltshire,  and  never  since,  nor  had 
she  ever  discovered  what  it  was. 

"  When  I  was  a  child,"  the  letter  says,  "  I  had 
a  great  fancy  for  a  rare,  strange,  fascinating  insect 
called  by  the  children  of  my  day  the  Merrylee- 
dance-a-pole.  Only  on  the  hottest  and  longest  of 
summer  days  did  the  radiant  being  delight  our 
eyes;  to  have  seen  it  conferred  high  honour  and 
distinction  on  the  fortunate  beholder.  We  re- 
garded it  with  mingled  awe  and  joy,  and  followed 
its  erratic  and  rapid  flight  with  ecstasy.  It  was 
soft  and  warm  and  brown,  fluffy  and  golden,  too, 


BEAUTIFUL  HAWK  -  MOTHS       223 

and  created  in  our  infantile  minds  an  indescribable 
impression  of  glory,  brilliance,  aloofness,  elusive- 
ness.  We  thought  it  a  being  from  some  other 
world,  and  dui'ing  each  of  its  frequent  sudden 
disappearances  among  the  flowering  bushes  we 
held  our  breath,  fearing  it  would  return  no  more, 
but  had  flown  right  through  the  blossoming  screen 
and  back  to  the  sun  and  stars.  To  me  it  was  an 
apparition  of  inexpressible  delight,  and  I  longed 
to  be  a  Merrylee-dance-a-pole  myself  to  fly  to 
unheard-of,  unthought-of,  undreamed-of  beautiful^ 
flowery  lands." 

A  descriptive  passage  this  by  one  who  is  not 
a  literary  person,  a  student  of  expression  anxiously 
seeking  after  the  "  explicit  word,"  yet  an  expres- 
sion rare  and  beautiful  as  the  thing  described:  one 
reads  it  with  a  quickened  pulse.'  Who  should 
dream  of  finding  its  like  anywhere  in  the  thousand 
books  of  British  Butterflies  and  Moths  which  our 
exceedingly  industrious  lepidopterists  have  pro- 
duced during  the  last  six  or  seven  decades?  Yet 
these  same  thousand  volumes  were  written  less  for 
the  scientific  student  of  entomology  than  for  the 
general  reader,  or  for  every  person  who  on  seeing 
a  white  admiral  or  a  privet  moth  wants  to  know 
what  it  is  and  goes  to  a  book  to  find  out  all  about 
it.  These  writers  all  fail  in  the  very  thing  which 
one  would  imagine  to  be  most  important  in  books 
intended  for  such  a  purpose — the  power  to  convey 
to  the  reader's  mind  a  vivid  image  of  the  thing 
described.      One    would    like    to    know    what    the 


224    THE  BOOK  OF  A  NATURALIST 

professional  entomologist  or  wi'iter  of  books  about 
moths  would  say  of  the  passage  I  have  quoted 
from  a  letter  asking  for  information  about  an 
insect.  Probably  he  would  say  that  the  lady  wrote 
more  from  the  heart  than  the  head,  that  writing 
so  she  is  rhapsodical  and  as  inaccurate  as  one 
would  expect  her  to  be,  although  one  is  able  to 
identify  her  Merrylee-dance-a-pole  as  the  Macro- 
glossa  stellatarzmi. 

It  would  be  perfectly  true — she  is  inaccurate, 
yet  succeeds  in  producing  the  effect  aimed  at 
while  the  accurate  writers  fail.  She  succeeds 
because  she  saw  the  object  as  a  child,  emotionally, 
and  after  thirty  years  was  still  able  to  recover  the 
precise  feeling  experienced  then  and  to  convey  to 
another  the  image  in  her  mind.  We  may  say  that 
impressions  are  vivid  and  live  vividly  in  the  mind, 
even  to  the  end  of  life,  in  those  alone  in  whom 
something  that  is  of  the  child  survives  in  the 
adult — the  measureless  delight  in  all  this  visible 
world,  experienced  every  day  by  the  millions  of 
children  happily  born  outside  the  city's  gates,  but 
so  rarely  expressed  in  literature,  as  Traherne,  let 
us  say,  expressed  it;  and,  with  the  delight,  the 
sense  of  wonder  in  all  life,  which  is  akin  to,  if  not 
one  with,  the  mythical  faculty,  and  if  experienced 
in  a  high  degree  is  a  sense  of  the  supernatural  in  all 
natural  things.  We  may  say,  in  fact,  that  unless 
the  soul  goes  out  to  meet  what  we  see  we  do  not  see 
it;  nothing  do  we  see,  not  a  beetle,  not  a  blade  of 
grass. 


XX 

THE  STRENUOUS  MOLE 

We  read  in  the  books  of  the  astounding  strength 
and  energy  of  this  creature  that  "  swims  in  the 
earth,"  as  they  say,  just  as  a  diving  auk,  guillemot, 
or  puffin  does  in  the  water.  The  energy  of  a 
squirrel  that  runs  up  a  very  tall  tree-trunk,  darts 
along  a  far-reaching  horizontal  branch,  flings  him- 
self from  the  end  of  it  to  the  branch  of  another 
tree,  and  is  a  hundred  feet  high  and  away  before 
you  can  finish  speaking  a  sentence  of  twenty  words, 
is  nothing  to  compare  with  the  feats  of  the  mole 
underground.  But,  being  out  of  sight,  he  is  out 
of  mind,  on  which  account  his  most  remarkable 
qualities  are  not  properly  appreciated.  He  is  also 
a  small  beast — no  bigger  than  a  lady's  gloved 
hand — consequently  his  strength,  like  that  of  the 
beetle,  does  not  matter  to  us.  It  would  matter  a 
great  deal  if  moles  grew  to  the  size  of  cows  and 
bulls.  In  or  under  London  they  would  excavate 
numberless  tunnels  which  would  serve  as  subways 
for  the  foot-passengers  and  for  the  tubular  rail- 
ways. This  would  be  an  advantage,  but  as  a  set- 
off they  would,  in  throwing  up  their  hiUs,  cause  a 


228    THE  BOOK  OF  A  NATURALIST 

velvety-black  back  became  visible,  and  made  in 
its  setting  of  red  and  yellow  leaves  a  prettily 
coloured  picture.  Presently  he  disappeared,  then 
quickly  rose  again  with  more  earth;  but  the 
leaves  evidently  annoyed  him,  and  to  rid  himself 
of  them  he  suddenly  began  agitating  his  body  in 
an  astonishing  way,  for  while  the  movement  lasted 
he  looked  like  a  black  ball  spinning  round  so  rapidly 
as  to  give  it  the  misty  appearance  of  a  revolving 
wheel  or  the  wings  of  a  hovering  hawk-moth. 
This  swift  motion  on  his  part  set  the  leaves  flying, 
and  mole  and  dust  and  dancing  leaves  together 
formed  a  little  whirlwind  or  maelstrom.  When 
it  was  over  the  leaves  settled  again  on  the  mound, 
and  twice  again  the  extraordinary  performance  was 
repeated,  and  the  little  animal  being  then  almost 
above  the  ground  I  foolishly  put  out  my  hand  to 
pick  him  up,  and  before  I  could  properly  grasp  him 
he  was  gone. 

The  spinning  or  revolving  motion  was  an  illusion 
of  the  sight  produced  by  the  exceedingly  rapid 
motions  of  the  skin  while  the  animal  was  stationary, 
and  the  deluding  motions  were  effected  by  means 
of  what  the  anatomists  call  the  "  twitching  muscle," 
which  is  possessed  in  some  degree  by  most,  if  not 
by  all,  mammalians.  We  see  it  every  day  in  our 
domestic  animals,  especially  in  the  dog  when  he 
shakes  himself  after  a  swim;  and  if  he  has  shaggy 
hair  and  it  is  full  of  water  he  throws  it  off  so 
violently  that  it  fills  the  air  with  a  dense  spray 
for  several  feet  around  him.    He  could  not  do  this 


THE  STRENUOUS  MOLE  229 

by  merely  shaking  or  rocking  his  whole  body  from 
side  to  side;  he  does  rock  his  body  too,  but  at  the 
same  time  he  gives  the  rapid  vibratory  motion  to 
the  whole  skin  which  discharges  the  wet.  So  it  is 
with  the  horse  when  he  shakes  off  the  wet  or  the 
dust  after  rolling. 

But  in  the  horse  the  twitching  power  does  not 
extend,  or  is  not  uniformly  powerful,  over  the 
whole  surface;  it  is  feeble  on  the  hind  quarters, 
and  we  can  only  suppose  that  in  the  horse,  an^. 
other  large  mammalians,  the  chief  use  of  the 
twitching  act  is  to  shake  off  dust,  flies,  and  other 
tormenting  insects,  and  that  the  growth  of  the 
hairy  tail  in  the  horse,  used  to  switch  insects  off, 
has  made  the  twitching  power  less  useful  on  this 
portion  of  the  body.  In  other  words,  when  this 
highly  specialised  tail  had  fully  taken  this  office  or 
function  on  itself  it  caused  the  decay  of  the  twitch- 
ing muscle  through  disuse  in  those  parts  of  his 
body. 

We  see,  too,  that  the  muscle  has  its  greatest 
power  in  that  part  of  the  body  which  is  just  out 
of  reach  of  the  tail,  and  is  also  more  difficult  for 
the  animal  to  reach  with  his  mouth — that  is  to 
say,  his  back  over  the  shoulders.  A  man  riding 
bare-back  can  feel  it  powerfully  when  the  horse 
shakes  himself.  "  It  is  like  riding  on  an  earth- 
quake," I  heard  a  man  say  once;  to  me,  with  no 
experience  of  earthquakes,  the  sensation  was  like 
that  of  an  electric  shock. 

In  man  we  can  imagine  the  loss  of  the  twitching 


230    THE  BOOK  OF  A  NATURALIST 

power  has  had  a  twofold  cause:  first  the  hands, 
which,  hke  the  beak  in  birds,  can  reach  to  pretty 
well  any  part  of  the  body,  and,  secondly,  the 
custom  of  wearing  clothes,  which  protect  the  skin 
and  make  the  twitching  unnecessary. 

The  twitching  power  survives  only  in  the  face, 
and  is  almost  confined  to  the  forehead:  but  even 
there  it  is,  with  its  slow  up-and-down  motion,  a 
poor  faculty  compared  with  the  rapid  shaking  or 
trembling  motion  other  mammals  are  capable  of, 
which  they  are  able  to  confine  to  the  exact  spot 
on  which  an  insect  has  alighted.  In  a  few  persons 
the  power  extends  over  the  scalp,  and  I  have 
heard  of  a  man  who  could  cause  his  hat  to  fall  off, 
not  with  shaking  his  head,  but  simply  by  working 
the  muscles  of  his  forehead  and  scalp.  Altogether, 
we  may  say  that  the  faculty  is  weakest  in  man — 
that  he  is  at  one  end  of  the  pole,  and  the  mole  is 
at  the  other.  The  mole  exists  in  the  earth,  moving 
in  and  covered  with  the  dust  he  creates  in  digging, 
and  he  no  doubt  frees  himself  from  it  by  means  of 
his  twitching  muscle  a  hundred  times  a  day. 

That  this  wonderful  muscle  can  do  anything 
more  to  increase  his  happiness  I  doubt,  and  this  I 
say,  because  it  is  told  in  the  sacred  writings  of  the 
East  that  Buddha  changed  himself  into  a  hare  and 
jumped  into  a  fire  to  roast  himself  to  provide  a 
meal  for  a  hungry  beggar,  and  that  before  jumping 
in,  he — Buddha  as  a  hare — shook  himself  three 
times  so  that  none  of  the  insects  in  his  fur  should 
perish  with  him. 


THE  STRENUOUS  MOLE  231 

I  don't  believe  it!  My  Ockley  mole  has  proved 
to  me  that  insect  parasites  cannot  be  got  rid  of  in 
that  way.  The  hare's  twitching  muscle  is  not  more 
powerful  than  that  of  the  generality  of  animals.  I 
have  seen  him  make  the  water  fly  like  a  mist  out 
of  his  fur,  but  the  dog  can  do  it  nearly  as  well. 
In  the  mole  the  movement  is  more  sustained  and, 
I  imagine,  more  rapid,  yet  the  fleas  must  be  able 
to  keep  their  hold  on  him  since  we  always  find  him 
much  infested  by  them. 


230    THE  BOOK  OF  A  NATURALIST 

power  has  had  a  twofold  cause:  first  the  hands, 
which,  hke  the  beak  in  birds,  can  reach  to  pretty 
well  any  part  of  the  body,  and,  secondly,  the 
custom  of  wearing  clothes,  which  protect  the  skin 
and  make  the  twitching  unnecessary. 

The  twitching  power  survives  only  in  the  face, 
and  is  almost  confined  to  the  forehead:  but  even 
there  it  is,  with  its  slow  up-and-down  motion,  a 
poor  faculty  compared  with  the  rapid  shaking  or 
trembling  motion  other  mammals  are  capable  of, 
which  they  are  able  to  confine  to  the  exact  spot 
on  which  an  insect  has  alighted.  In  a  few  persons 
the  power  extends  over  the  scalp,  and  I  have 
heard  of  a  man  who  could  cause  his  hat  to  fall  off, 
not  with  shaking  his  head,  but  simply  by  working 
the  muscles  of  his  forehead  and  scalp.  Altogether, 
we  may  say  that  the  faculty  is  weakest  in  man — 
that  he  is  at  one  end  of  the  pole,  and  the  mole  is 
at  the  other.  The  mole  exists  in  the  earth,  moving 
in  and  covered  with  the  dust  he  creates  in  digging, 
and  he  no  doubt  frees  himself  from  it  by  means  of 
his  twitching  muscle  a  hundred  times  a  day. 

That  this  wonderful  muscle  can  do  anything 
more  to  increase  his  happiness  I  doubt,  and  this  I 
say,  because  it  is  told  in  the  sacred  writings  of  the 
East  that  Buddha  changed  himself  into  a  hare  and 
jumped  into  a  fire  to  roast  himself  to  provide  a 
meal  for  a  hungry  beggar,  and  that  before  jumping 
in,  he — Buddha  as  a  hare — shook  himself  three 
times  so  that  none  of  the  insects  in  his  fur  should 
perish  with  him. 


THE  STRENUOUS  MOLE  231 

I  don't  believe  it!  My  Gckley  mole  has  proved 
to  me  that  insect  parasites  cannot  be  got  rid  of  in 
that  way.  The  hare's  twitching  muscle  is  not  more 
powerful  than  that  of  the  generality  of  animals.  I 
have  seen  him  make  the  water  fly  like  a  mist  out 
of  his  fur,  but  the  dog  can  do  it  nearly  as  well. 
In  the  mole  the  movement  is  more  sustained  and, 
I  imagine,  more  rapid,  yet  the  fleas  must  be  able 
to  keep  their  hold  on  him  since  we  always  find  him 
much  infested  by  them. 


XXI 

A  FRIENDLY  RAT 

Most  of  our  animals,  also  many  creeping  things, 
such  as  our  "  wilde  wormes  in  woods,"  common 
toads,  natterjacks,  newts,  and  lizards,  and  stranger 
still,  many  insects,  have  been  tamed  and  kept  as 
pets. 

Badgers,  otters,  foxes,  hares,  and  voles  are 
easily  dealt  with;  but  that  any  person  should 
desire  to  fondle  so  prickly  a  creature  as  a  hedgehog, 
or  so  diabolical  a  mammalian  as  the  bloodthirsty, 
flat-headed  little  weasel,  seems  very  odd.  Spiders, 
too,  are  uncomfortable  pets;  you  can't  caress  them 
as  you  could  a  dormouse;  the  most  you  can  do 
is  to  provide  your  spider  with  a  clear  glass  bottle  to 
live  in,  and  teach  him  to  come  out  in  response  to 
a  musical  sound,  drawn  from  a  banjo  or  fiddle, 
to  take  a  fly  from  your  fingers  and  go  back  again 
to  its  bottle. 

An  acquaintance  of  the  writer  is  partial  to  adders 
as  pets,  and  he  handles  them  as  freely  as  the 
schoolboy  does  his  innocuous  ring-snake;  Mr. 
Benjamin  Kidd  once  gave  us  a  delightful  account 
of  his  pet  humble-bees,  who  used  to  fly  about  his 
232 


A  FRIENDLY  RAT  233 

room,  and  come  at  call  to  be  fed,  and  who  mani- 
fested an  almost  painful  interest  in  his  coat  buttons, 
examining  them  every  day  as  if  anxious  to  find  out 
their  true  significance.  Then  there  was  my  old 
friend,  Miss  Hopley,  the  writer  on  reptiles,  who 
died  recently,  aged  99  years,  who  tamed  newts, 
but  whose  favourite  pet  was  a  slow-worm.  She 
was  never  tired  of  expatiating  on  its  lovable 
qualities.  One  finds  Viscount  Grey's  pet  squirrels 
more  engaging,  for  these  are  wild  squirrels  in  a 
wood  in  Northumberland,  who  quickly  find  out 
when  he  is  at  home  and  make  their  way  to  the 
house,  scale  the  walls,  and  invade  the  library; 
then,  jumping  upon  his  writing-table,  are  rewarded 
with  nuts,  which  they  take  from  his  hand.  Another 
Northumbrian  friend  of  the  writer  keeps,  or 
kept,  a  pet  cormorant,  and  finds  him  no  less  greedy 
in  the  domestic  than  in  the  wild  state.  After 
catching  and  swallowing  fish  all  the  morning  in  a 
neighbouring  river,  he  wings  his  way  home  at 
meal-times,  screaming  to  be  fed,  and  ready  to 
devour  all  the  meat  and  pudding  he  can  get. 

The  list  of  strange  creatures  might  be  extended 
indefinitely,  even  fishes  included;  but  who  has 
ever  heard  of  a  tame  pet  rat?  Not  the  small 
white,  pink-eyed  variety,  artificially  bred,  which 
one  may  buy  at  any  dealer's,  but  a  common  brown 
rat,  Mus  decumanus,  one  of  the  commonest  wild 
animals  in  England  and  certainly  the  most  dis- 
liked. Yet  this  wonder  has  been  witnessed  recently 
in  the  village  of  Lelant,  in  West  Cornwall.     Here 


234    THE  BOOK  OF  A  NATURALIST 

is  the  strange  story,  which  is  rather  sad  and  at  the 
same  time  a  little  funny. 

This  was  not  a  case  of  "wild  nature  won  by 
kindness " ;  the  rat  simply  thrust  itself  and  its 
friendship  on  the  woman  of  the  cottage:  and  she, 
being  childless  and  much  alone  in  her  kitchen  and 
living-room,  was  not  displeased  at  its  visits:  on 
the  contrary,  she  fed  it;  in  return  the  rat  grew 
more  and  more  friendly  and  familiar  towards  her, 
and  the  more  familiar  it  grew,  the  more  she  liked 
the  rat.  The  trouble  was,  she  possessed  a  cat,  a 
nice,  gentle  animal  not  often  at  home,  but  it  was 
dreadful  to  think  of  what  might  happen  at  any 
moment  should  pussy  walk  in  when  her  visitor 
was  with  her.  Then,  one  day,  pussy  did  walk  in 
when  the  rat  was  present,  purring  loudly,  her  tail 
held  stiffly  up,  showing  that  she  was  in  her  usual 
sweet  temper.  On  catching  sight  of  the  rat,  she 
appeared  to  know  intuitively  that  it  was  there  as 
a  privileged  guest,  while  the  rat  on  its  part  seemed 
to  know,  also  by  intuition,  that  it  had  nothing  to 
fear.  At  all  events  these  two  quickly  became 
friends  and  were  evidently  pleased  to  be  together, 
as  they  now  spent  most  of  the  time  in  the  room, 
and  would  drink  milk  from  the  same  saucer,  and 
sleep  bunched  up  together,  and  were  extremely 
intimate. 

By  and  by  the  rat  began  to  busy  herself  making 
a  nest  in  a  corner  of  the  kitchen  under  a  cupboard, 
and  it  became  evident  that  there  would  soon  be 
an  increase  in  the  rat  population.     She  now  spent 


A  FRIENDLY  RAT  235 

her  time  running  about  and  gathering  little  straws, 
feathers,  string,  and  anything  of  the  kind  she 
could  pick  up,  also  stealing  or  begging  for  strips 
of  cotton,  or  bits  of  wool  and  thread  from  the 
work  -  basket.  Now  it  happened  that  her  friend 
was  one  of  those  cats  with  huge  tufts  of  soft  hair 
on  the  two  sides  of  her  face;  a  cat  of  that  type, 
which  is  not  uncommon,  has  a  quaint  resemblance 
to  a  Mid- Victorian  gentleman  with  a  pair  of  mag- 
nificent side-whiskers  of  a  silky  softness  covering 
both  cheeks  and  flowing  down  like  a  double  beard. 
The  rat  suddenly  discovered  that  this  hair  was 
just  what  she  wanted  to  add  a  cushion-hke  lining 
to  her  nest,  so  that  her  naked  pink  little  ratlings 
should  be  born  into  the  softest  of  all  possible 
worlds.  At  once  she  started  plucking  out  the 
hairs,  and  the  cat,  taking  it  for  a  new  kind  of 
game,  but  a  little  too  rough  to  please  her,  tried 
for  a  while  to  keep  her  head  out  of  reach  and  to 
throw  the  rat  off.  But  she  wouldn't  be  thrown 
off,  and  as  she  persisted  in  flying  back  and  jumping 
at  the  cat's  face  and  plucking  the  hairs,  the  cat 
quite  lost  her  temper  and  administered  a  blow  with 
her  claws  unsheathed. 

The  rat  fled  to  her  refuge  to  lick  her  wounds, 
and  was  no  doubt  as  much  astonished  at  the 
sudden  change  in  her  friend's  disposition  as  the 
cat  had  been  at  the  rat's  new  way  of  showing  her 
playfulness.  The  result  was  that  when,  after 
attending  to  her  scratches,  she  started  upon  her 
task  of  gathering  soft  materials,   she  left   the   cat 


236    THE  BOOK  OF  A  NATURALIST 

severely  alone.  They  were  no  longer  friends; 
they  simply  ignored  one  another's  presence  in  the 
room.  The  little  ones,  numbering  about  a  dozen, 
presently  came  to  light  and  were  quietly  removed 
by  the  woman's  husband,  who  didn't  mind  his 
missis  keeping  a  rat,  but  drew  the  line  at  one. 

The  rat  quickly  recovered  from  her  loss  and 
was  the  same  nice  affectionate  little  thing  she  had 
always  been  to  her  mistress;  then  a  fresh  wonder 
came  to  light — cat  and  rat  were  fast  friends  once 
more!  This  happy  state  of  things  lasted  a  few 
weeks;  but,  as  we  know,  the  rat  was  married, 
though  her  lord  and  master  never  appeared  on  the 
scene,  indeed,  he  was  not  wanted;  and  very  soon 
it  became  plain  to  see  that  more  little  rats  were 
coming.  The  rat  is  an  exceedingly  prolific  creature; 
she  can  give  a  month's  start  to  a  rabbit  and  beat 
her  at  the  end  by  about  40  points. 

Then  came  the  building  of  the  nest  in  the  same 
old  corner,  and  when  it  got  to  the  last  stage  and 
the  rat  was  busily  running  about  in  search  of  soft 
materials  for  the  lining,  she  once  more  made  the 
discovery  that  those  beautiful  tufts  of  hair  on  her 
friend's  face  were  just  what  she  wanted,  and  once 
more  she  set  vigorously  to  work  pulling  the  hairs 
out.  Again,  as  on  the  former  occasion,  the  cat 
tried  to  keep  her  friend  off,  hitting  her  right  and 
left  with  her  soft  pads,  and  spitting  a  little,  just 
to  show  that  she  didn't  like  it.  But  the  rat  was 
determined  to  have  the  hairs,  and  the  more  she 
was  thrown  off  the  more  bent  was  she  on  getting 


A  FRIENDLY  RAT  237 

them,  until  the  breaking  -  point  was  reached  and 
puss,  in  a  sudden  rage,  let  fly,  dealing  blow  after 
blow  with  lightning  rapidity  and  with  all  the  claws 
out.  The  rat,  shrieking  with  pain  and  terror,  rushed 
out  of  the  room  and  was  never  seen  again,  to  the 
lasting  grief  of  her  mistress.  But  its  memory  will 
long  remain  like  a  fragrance  in  the  cottage — perhaps 
the  only  cottage  in  all  this  land  where  kindly 
feelings  for  the  rat  are  cherished. 


XXII 

THE  LITTLE  RED  DOG 

Sauntering  along  a  lane  -  like  road  between 
Charterhouse  Hinton  and  Woolverton,  in  the  West 
Country,  I  spied  a  small  red  dog  trotting  along 
some  distance  behind  me.  He  was  in  the  middle 
of  the  road,  but  seeing  that  he  was  observed  he 
sheered  off  to  the  other  side,  and  when  nearly 
abreast  of  me  paused  suspiciously,  sniffed  the  air 
to  get  the  exact  smell,  then  made  a  dash  past,  and 
after  going  about  twenty  or  thirty  yards  full  speed, 
dropped  once  more  into  his  travelling  trot,  to 
vanish  from  sight  at  the  next  bend  in  the  road. 

Though  alone,  I  laughed,  for  he  was  a  very  old 
acquaintance  of  mine.  I  knew  him  well,  although 
he  did  not  know  me,  and  regarding  me  as  a  stranger 
he  very  naturally  associated  my  appearance  with 
that  well-aimed  stone  or  half-brick  which  had 
doubtless  registered  an  impression  on  his  small 
brain.  I  knew  him  because  he  is  a  common  type, 
widely  distributed  on  the  earth;  I  doubt  if  there 
are  many  countries  where  you  will  not  meet  him 
— a  degenerate  or  dwarf  variety  of  the  universal 
cur,  smaller  than  a  fox-terrier  and  shorter-legged; 


THE  LITTLE  RED  DOG  239 

the  low  stature,  long  body,  small  ears,  and  blunt 
nose  giving  him  a  somewhat  stoaty  or  even  reptilian 
appearance  among  the  canines.  His  red  colour  is, 
indeed,  the  commonest  hue  of  the  common  dog, 
or  cur,  wherever  found.  It  is  rarely  a  bright  red, 
like  that  of  the  Irish  setter,  or  any  pleasing  shade 
of  red,  as  in  the  dingo,  the  fox,  and  the  South 
American  maned  wolf;  it  is  dull,  often  inclining 
to  yellow,  sometimes  mixed  with  grey  as  in  the 
jackal,  sometimes  with  a  dash  of  ginger  in  it.  The 
unbeautiful  yellowish-red  is  the  prevailing  hue  of 
the  pariah  dog.  At  all  events  that  is  the  impression 
one  gets  from  the  few  of  the  numberless  travellers 
in  the  East  who  have  condescended  to  tell  us  any- 
thing about  this  low-down  animal. 

Where  the  cur  or  pariah  flourishes,  there  you 
are  sure  to  find  the  small  red  dog,  and  perhaps 
wonder  at  his  ability  to  maintain  his  existence. 
He  is  certainly  placed  at  a  great  disadvantage. 
If  he  finds  or  steals  a  bone,  the  first  big  dog  he 
meets  will  say  to  him,  "  Drop  it  ! "  And  he  will 
drop  it  at  once,  knowing  very  well  that  if  he  refuses 
to  do  so  it  will  be  taken  from  him,  and  his  own 
poor  little  bones  perhaps  get  crunched  in  the  process. 
As  compensation  he  has,  I  fancy,  a  somewhat 
quicker  intelligence,  a  subtler  cunning.  His  brains 
weigh  less  by  a  great  deal  than  those  of  the  bull- 
dog or  a  big  cur,  but — like  ladies'  brains  compared 
with  men's — they  are  of  a  finer  quality. 

When  I  encountered  this  animal  in  the  quiet 
Somerset    road,    and    laughed    to    see    him    and 


240    THE  BOOK  OF  A  NATURALIST 

exclaimed  mentally,  "  There  he  goes,  the  same  old 
little  red  dog,  suspicious  and  sneaky  as  ever,  and 
very  brisk  and  busy  although  his  years  must  be 
well-nigh  as  many  as  my  own,"  I  was  thinking  of 
the  far  past,  and  the  sight  of  him  brought  back  a 
memory  of  one  of  the  first  of  the  small  red  dogs 
I  have  known  intimately.  I  was  a  boy  then,  and 
my  home  was  in  the  pampas  of  Buenos  Ayres.  I 
had  a  young  sister,  a  bright,  lively  girl,  and  I 
remember  that  a  poor  native  woman  who  lived  in 
a  smoky  hovel  a  few  miles  away  was  fond  of  her, 
and  that  she  came  one  day  with  a  present  for  her 
— something  precious  wrapped  up  in  a  shawl — a 
little  red  pup,  one  of  a  litter  which  her  own  beloved 
dog  had  brought  forth.  My  sister  accepted  the 
present  joyfully,  for  though  we  possessed  fourteen 
or  fifteen  dogs  at  the  time,  these  all  belonged  to 
the  house;  they  were  everybody's  and  nobody's 
in  particular,  and  she  was  delighted  to  have  one 
that  would  be  her  very  own.  It  grew  into  a  common 
red  dog,  rather  better-looking  than  most  of  its  kind, 
having  a  bushier  tail,  longer  and  brighter-coloured 
hair,  and  a  somewhat  foxy  head  and  face.  In 
spite  of  these  good  points,  we  boys  never  tired  of 
laughing  at  her  little  Reddie,  as  he  was  called,  and 
his  intense  devotion  to  his  young  mistress  and 
faith  in  her  power  to  protect  him  only  made  him 
seem  more  ludicrous.  When  we  all  walked  to- 
gether on  the  grass  plain,  my  brother  and  I  used 
to  think  it  great  fun  to  separate  Reddie  from  his 
mistress  by  making  a  sudden  dash,  and  then  hunt 


THE  LITTLE  RED  DOG  241 

him  over  the  turf.  Away  he  would  go,  performing 
a  wide  circuit,  then,  doubhng  back,  would  fly  to 
her  for  safety.  She,  stooping  and  holding  out  her 
hands  to  him,  would  wait  his  coming,  and  at  the 
end,  with  one  flying  leap,  he  would  land  himself 
in  her  arms,  almost  capsizing  her  with  the  force 
of  the  impact,  and  from  that  refuge  look  back 
reproachfully  at  us. 

The  cunning  little  ways  of  the  small  red  dog 
were  learned  later  when  I  came  to  know  him  in 
the  city  of  Buenos  Ayres.  Loitering  at  the  water- 
side one  day,  I  became  aware  of  an  animal  of  this 
kind  following  me,  and  no  sooner  did  he  catch  my 
eye  than  he  came  up,  wagging,  wriggling,  and 
grinning,  smiling,  so  to  speak,  all  over  his  body; 
and  I,  thinking  he  had  lost  home  and  friends  and 
touched  by  his  appeal,  allowed  him  to  follow  me 
through  the  streets  to  the  house  of  relations  where 
I  was  staying.  I  told  them  I  intended  keeping 
the  outcast  awhile  to  see  what  could  be  done  with 
him.  My  friends  did  not  welcome  him  warmly, 
and  they  even  made  some  disparaging  remarks 
about  little  red  dogs  in  general;  but  they  gave 
him  his  dinner — a  big  plateful  of  meat — which  he 
devoured  greedily,  and  then,  very  much  at  home, 
he  stretched  himself  out  on  the  hearth-rug  and 
went  fast  asleep.  When  he  woke  an  hour  later  he 
jumped  up  and  ran  to  the  hall,  and,  finding  the 
street-door  closed,  made  a  great  row,  howling  and 
scratching  at  the  panels.  I  hurried  out  and  opened 
the   door,    and   out    and   off   he   went,    without   so 


242    THE  BOOK  OF  A  NATURALIST 

much  as  a  thank-you.  He  had  found  a  fool  and 
had  succeeded  in  getting  something  out  of  him,  and 
his  business  with  me  was  ended.  There  was  no 
hesitation;  he  was  going  straight  home,  and  knew 
his  way  quite  well. 

Years  afterwards  it  was  a  surprise  to  me  to 
find  that  the  little  red  dog  was  an  inhabitant  of 
London.  There  was  no  muzzling  order  then,  in 
the  'seventies,  and  quite  a  common  sight  was  the 
independent  dog,  usually  a  cur,  roaming  the  streets 
in  search  of  stray  scraps  of  food.  He  shared  the 
sparrows'  broken  bread;  he  turned  over  the 
rubbish  heaps  left  by  the  road  -  sweepers ;  he 
sniffed  about  areas,  on  the  look-out  for  an  open 
dust  -  bin ;  and  he  hung  persistently  about  the 
butcher's  shop,  where  a  jealous  eye  was  kept  on 
his  movements.  These  dogs  doubtless  had  owners, 
who  paid  the  yearly  tax;  but  it  is  probable  that 
in  most  cases  they  found  for  themselves.  Probably, 
too,  the  adventurous  life  of  the  streets,  where 
carrion  was  not  too  plentiful,  had  the  effect  of 
sharpening  their  wits.  Here,  at  all  events,  I  was 
witness  of  an  action  on  the  part  of  a  small  red  dog 
which  fairly  astonished  me;  that  confidence  trick 
the  little  Argentine  beast  had  practised  on  me  was 
nothing  to  it. 

In  Regent  Street,  of  all  places,  one  bright 
winter  morning,  I  caught  sight  of  a  dog  lying  on 
the  pavement  close  to  the  wall,  hungrily  gnawing 
at  a  big  beef  bone  which  he  had  stolen  or  picked 
out  of  a  neighbouring  dust-hole.  He  was  a  miserable- 


THE  LITTLE  RED  DOG  243 

looking  object,  a  sort  of  lurcher,  of  a  dirty  red 
colour,  with  ribs  showing  like  the  bars  of  a  grid- 
iron through  his  mangy  side.  Even  in  those 
pre-muzzling  days,  when  he  still  had  the  pariah, 
it  was  a  little  strange  to  see  him  gnawing  his  bone 
at  that  spot,  just  by  Peter  Robinson's,  where  the 
broad  pavement  was  full  of  shopping  ladies;  and 
I  stood  still  to  watch  him.  Presently  a  small  red 
dog  came  trotting  along  the  pavement  from  the 
direction  of  the  Circus,  and  catching  sight  of  the 
mangy  lurcher  with  the  bone  he  was  instantly 
struck  motionless,  and  crouching  low  as  if  to 
make  a  dash  at  the  other,  his  tail  stiff,  his  hair 
bristling,  he  continued  gazing  for  some  moments; 
and  then,  just  when  I  thought  the  rush  and  struggle 
was  about  to  take  place,  up  jumped  this  little  red 
cur  and  rushed  back  towards  the  Circus,  uttering 
a  succession  of  excited  shrieky  barks.  The  con- 
tagion was  irresistible.  Off  went  the  lurcher, 
furiously  barking  too,  and  quickly  overtaking  the 
small  dog  dashed  on  and  away  to  the  middle  of 
the  Circus  to  see  what  all  the  noise  was  about. 
It  was  something  tremendously  important  to  dogs 
in  general,  no  doubt.  But  the  little  red  dog,  the 
little  liar,  had  no  sooner  been  overtaken  and  passed 
by  the  other,  than  back  he  ran,  and  picking  up  the 
bone,  made  off  with  it  in  the  opposite  direction. 
Very  soon  the  lurcher  returned  and  appeared 
astonished  and  puzzled  at  the  disappearance  of  his 
bone.  There  I  left  him,  still  looking  for  it  and 
sniffing  at  the  open  shop  doors.  He  perhaps  thought 


244    THE  BOOK  OF  A  NATURALIST 

in  his  simplicity  that  some  kind  lady  had  picked  it 
up  and  left  it  with  one  of  the  shopmen  to  be  claimed 
by  its  rightful  owner. 

I  had  heard  of  such  actions  on  the  part  of  dogs 
before,  but  always  with  a  smile;  for  we  know  the 
people  who  tell  this  kind  of  story  —  the  dog- 
worshippers,  or  canophilists  as  they  are  sometimes 
called,  a  people  weak  in  their  intellectuals,  and  as 
a  rule  unveracious,  although  probably  not  con- 
sciously so.  But  now  I  had  myself  witnessed  this 
thing,  which,  when  read,  will  perhaps  cause  others 
to  smile  in  their  turn. 

But  what  is  one  to  say  of  such  an  action?  Just 
now  we  are  all  of  us,  philosophers  included,  in  a 
muddle  over  the  questions  of  mind  and  intellect 
in  the  lower  animals,  and  just  how  much  of  each 
element  goes  to  the  composition  of  any  one  act; 
but  probably  most  persons  would  say  at  once  that 
the  action  of  the  little  red  dog  in  Regent  Street 
was  purely  intelligent.  I  am  not  sure.  The  swift- 
ness, smoothness,  and  certainty  with  which  the 
whole  thing  was  carried  out  gave  it  the  appearance 
of  a  series  of  automatic  movements  rather  than  a 
reasoned  act  which  had  never  been  rehearsed. 

Recently  during  my  country  rambles  I  have 
been  on  the  look-out  for  the  small  red  dog,  and 
have  met  with  several  interesting  examples  in  the 
southern  counties.  One,  in  Hampshire,  moved  me 
to  laughter  like  that  small  animal  at  Charterhouse 
Hinton. 

This  was  at  Sway,  a  village  near  Lymington.    A 


THE  LITTLE  RED  DOG  245 

boy,  mounted  on  a  creaking  old  bike,  was  driving 
some  cows  to  the  common,  and  had  the  greatest 
difficulty  in  keeping  on  while  following  behind  the 
lazy  beasts  on  a  rough  track  among  the  furze 
bushes;  and  behind  the  boy  at  a  distance  of  ten 
yards  trotted  the  little  red  dog,  tongue  out,  looking 
as  happy  and  proud  as  possible.  As  I  passed  him 
he  looked  back  at  me  as  if  to  make  sure  that  I  had 
seen  him  and  noted  that  he  formed  part  of  that 
important  procession.  On  another  day  I  went  to 
the  village  and  renewed  my  acquaintance  with  the 
little  fellow  and  heard  his  history.  Everybody 
praised  him  for  his  affectionate  disposition  and  his 
value  as  a  watch-dog  by  night,  and  I  was  told  that 
his  mother,  now  dead,  had  been  greatly  prized, 
and  was  the  smallest  red  dog  ever  seen  in  that  part 
of  Hampshire. 

Some  day  one  of  the  thousand  writers  on  "  man's 
friend  "  will  conceive  the  happy  idea  of  a  chapter 
or  two  on  tlie  dog — the  universal  cur — and  he  will 
then  perhaps  find  it  necessary  to  go  abroad  to 
study  this  well-marked  dwarf  variety,  for  with  us 
he  has  fallen  on  evil  days.  There  is  no  doubt  that 
the  muzzling  order  profoundly  affected  the  char- 
acter of  our  dog  population,  since  it  went  far 
towards  the  destruction  of  the  cur  and  of  mongrels 
— the  races  already  imperilled  by  the  extraordinary 
predominance  of  the  fox-terrier.  The  change  was 
most  marked  in  the  metropolis,  and  after  Mr. 
Long's  campaign  I  came  to  the  conclusion  that 
here    at   all   events    the    httle    red    dog   had    been 


246    THE  BOOK  OF  A  NATURALIST 

extirpated.  He,  with  other  varieties  of  the  cur, 
was  the  dog  of  the  poor,  and  when  the  muzzle 
deprived  him  of  the  power  to  fend  for  himself,  he 
became  a  burden  to  his  master.  But  I  was  mis- 
taken; he  is  still  with  us,  even  here  in  London, 
though  now  very  rare. 


XXIII 

DOGS  IN  LONDON 

The  subject  of  this  paper,  for  which  I  am  unable 
to  find  a  properly  descriptive  title,  will  be  certain 
changes  noticeable  during  recent  years  in  the  dogs 
of  the  metropolis,  and,  in  a  less  degree,  of  the 
country  generally.  At  the  same  time  there  has 
been  an  improvement  in  the  character  of  the  dog 
population,  due  mainly  to  the  weeding  out  of  the 
baser  breeds,  but  this  matter  does  not  concern 
us  here;  the  change  with  which  I  propose  to  deal 
is  in  the  temper  and,  as  to  one  particular,  the 
habits  of  the  animal.  This  was  the  result  of  the 
famous  (it  used  to  be  called  the  infamous)  muzzling 
order  of  1897,  which  restrained  dogs  throughout 
the  country  from  following  their  ancient  custom  of 
quarrelling  with  and  biting  one  another  for  the 
unprecedented  period  of  two  and  a  half  years. 
Nine  hundred  days  and  over  may  not  seem  too 
long  a  period  of  restraint  in  the  case  of  a  being 
whose  natural  term  runs  to  threescore  years  and 
ten,  but  in  poor  Tatters'  or  Towzer's  brief  existence 
of  a  dozen  summers  it  is  the  equivalent  of  more 
than  twenty  years  in  the  life  of  the  human  animal. 

247 


248    THE  BOOK  OF  A  NATURALIST 

As  a  naturalist  I  was  interested  in  the  muzzling 
order,  and  after  noting  its  effects  my  interest  in  the 
subject  has  continued  ever  since.  It  should  also, 
I  imagine,  be  a  matter  of  interest  and  importance 
to  all  who  have  a  special  regard  for  the  dog  or  who 
are  "  devoted  to  dogs,"  who  regard  them  as  the 
"  friends  of  man,"  even  holding  with  the  canophilists 
of  the  old  Youatt  period  of  the  last  century  that 
the  dog  was  specially  created  to  fill  the  place  of 
man's  servant  and  companion.  Strange  to  say,  I 
have  not  yet  met  with  any  person  of  the  dog-loving 
kind  who  has  himself  noticed  any  change  in  the 
temper  or  habits  of  the  dog  during  the  last  fourteen 
or  fifteen  years  or  has  any  knowledge  of  it.  One 
can  only  suppose — and  this  applies  not  only  to 
those  who  cherish  a  peculiar  affection  for  the  dog, 
but  to  the  numerous  body  of  London  naturalists 
as  well — that  the  change  was  unmarked  on  account 
of  the  very  long  period  during  which  the  order  was 
in  force,  when  dogs  were  deprived  of  the  power 
to  bite,  so  that  when  the  release  came  the  former 
condition  of  things  in  the  animal  world  was  no 
longer  distinctly  remembered.  It  was  doubtless 
assumed  that,  the  muzzle  once  removed,  all  things 
were  exactly  as  they  had  been  before:  if  a  few 
remembered  and  noticed  the  change,  they  failed 
to  record  it — at  all  events  I  have  seen  nothing 
about  it  in  print.  Circumstances  made  it  impossible 
for  me  not  to  notice  the  immediate  effect  of  the 
order,  and  at  the  end  of  the  time  to  forget  the  state 
of  things  as  they  existed  before  its  imposition. 


DOGS  IN  LONDON  249 

I  was  probably  more  confined  to  London  during 
the  years  1897-9  than  most  persons  who  are  keenly 
interested  in  animal  life,  and  being  so  confined,  I 
was  compelled  to  gratify  my  taste  or  passion  by 
paying  a  great  deal  of  attention  to  the  only  animals 
that  there  are  to  observe  in  our  streets,  the  dog 
being  the  most  important.  I  also  took  notes  of 
what  I  observed — my  way  of  remembering  not  to 
forget;  and,  refreshing  my  mind  by  returning  to 
them,  I  am  able  to  recover  a  distinct  picture  of  the 
state  of  things  in  the  pre-muzzling  times.  It  is 
a  very  different  state  from  that  of  to-day.  One 
thing  that  was  a  cause  of  surprise  to  me  in  those 
days  was  the  large  number  of  dogs,  mostly  mongrels 
and  curs,  to  be  seen  roaming  masterless  about  the 
streets.  These  I  classed  as  pariahs,  although  they 
all,  no  doubt,  had  their  homes  in  mean  streets  and 
courts,  just  as  the  ownerless  pariah  dogs  in  Eastern 
towns  have  their  homes — their  yard  or  pavement 
or  spot  of  waste  ground  where  they  live  and  bask 
in  the  sun  when  not  roaming  in  quest  of  food  and 
adventures.  Many  of  these  London  pariahs  were 
wretched  -  looking  objects,  full  of  sores  and  old 
scars,  some  like  skeletons  and  others  with  half 
their  hair  off  from  mange  and  other  skin  diseases. 
They  were  to  be  seen  all  over  London,  always 
hunting  for  food,  hanging  about  areas,  like  the 
bone-  and  bottle-buyers,  looking  for  an  open  dust- 
bin where  something  might  be  found  to  comfort 
their  stomachs.  They  also  haunted  butchers'  shops, 
where   the   butcher   kept    a   jealous    eye   on   their 


250    THE  BOOK  OF  A  NATURALIST 

movements  and  sent  them  away  with  a  kick  and 
a  curse  whenever  he  got  the  chance.  Most,  if  not 
all,  of  these  poor  dogs  had  owners  who  gave  them 
shelter  but  no  food  or  very  little,  and  probably  in 
most  cases  succeeded  in  evading  the  license  duty. 

There  is  no  doubt  that  in  the  past  the  dog 
population  of  London  was  always  largely  composed 
of  animals  of  this  kind — "  curs  of  low  degree,"  and 
a  great  variety  of  mongrels,  mostly  living  on  their 
wits.  An  account  of  the  dogs  of  London  of  two  or 
three  or  four  centuries  ago  would  have  an  extra- 
ordinary interest  for  us  now,  but,  unfortunately, 
no  person  took  the  pains  to  write  it.  Caius,  our 
oldest  writer  on  dogs,  says  of  "  curres  of  the 
mungrel  and  rascall  sort " — the  very  animals  we 
want  to  know  about:  "  Of  such  dogs  as  keep  not 
their  kind,  of  such  as  are  mingled  out  of  sundry 
sortes  not  imitating  the  conditions  of  some  one 
certaine  Spece,  because  they  resemble  no  notable 
shape,  nor  exercise  any  worthy  property  of  the  true, 
perfect,  and  gentle  kind,  it  is  not  necesarye  that 
I  write  any  more  of  them,  but  to  banish  them  as 
unprofitable  im.plements  out  of  the  boundes  of  my 
Booke."  It  is  regrettable  that  he  did  "  banish " 
them,  as  he  appears  to  have  been  something  of  an 
observer  on  his  own  account.  Had  he  given  us  a 
few  pages  on  the  life  and  habits  of  the  "  rascall 
sort "  of  animal,  his  Booke  of  Englishe  Dogges, 
which  after  so  many  centuries  is  still  occasionally 
reprinted,  would  have  been  as  valuable  to  us  now 
as  Turner's  on  British  birds  (1544)  and  Willughby's 


DOGS  IN  LONDON  251 

half  a  century  later  on  the  same  subject,  and  as 
Gould's  brilliant  essay  on  the  habits  of  British  ants 
— which,  by  the  way,  has  never  been  reprinted — 
and  as  Gilbert  White's  classic,  which  came  later  in 
the  eighteenth  century. 

That  the  bond  uniting  man  and  dog  in  all 
instances  when  the  poor  brute  was  obliged  to  fend 
for  himself  in  the  inhospitable  streets  of  London 
was  an  exceedingly  frail  one  was  plainly  seen  when 
the  muzzling  order  of  1897  was  made.  An  extra- 
ordinary number  of  apparently  ownerless  dogs, 
unmuzzled  and  collarless,  were  found  roaming 
about  the  streets  and  taken  by  hundreds  every 
week  to  the  lethal  chamber.  In  thirty  months  the 
dog  population  of  the  metropolis  had  decreased  by 
about  one  hundred  thousand.  The  mongrels  and 
dogs  of  the  "  rascall  sort "  had  all  but  vanished, 
and  this  was  how  the  improvement  in  the  character 
of  the  dog  population  mentioned  before  came  about 
immediately.  But  a  far  more  important  change 
had  been  going  on  at  the  same  time — the  change 
in  the  temper  of  our  dogs;  and  it  may  here  be 
well  to  remark  that  this  change  in  disposition  was 
not  the  result  of  the  weeding-out  process  I  have 
described.  The  better  breeds  are  not  more  amiable 
than  the  curs  of  low  degree.  The  man  who  has 
made  a  friend  and  companion  of  the  cur  will  tell 
you  that  he  is  as  nice  -  tempered,  affectionate, 
faithful,  and  intelligent  as  the  nobler  kinds,  the 
dogs  of  "  notable  shape." 

Let  us  now  go  back  to  the  muzzling  time  of 


252    THE  BOOK  OF  A  NATURALIST 

1897-9,  and  I  will  give  here  the  substance  of  the 
notes  I  made  at  the  time.  They  have  among  my 
notes  on  many  subjects  a  peculiar  interest  to  me  as 
a  naturalist  because  in  the  comments  I  made  at 
the  time  I  ventured  to  make  a  prediction  which 
has  not  been  fulfilled.  I  was  astonished  and 
delighted  to  find  that  (on  this  one  occasion)  I  had 
proved  a  false  prophet. 

The  dog-muzzling  question  (I  wrote)  does  not 
interest  me  personally,  since  I  keep  no  dog,  nor 
love  to  see  so  intelligent  and  serviceable  a  beast 
degraded  to  the  position  of  a  mere  pet  or  plaything 
• — a  creature  that  has  lost  or  been  robbed  of  its 
true  place  in  the  scheme  of  things.  Looking  at  the 
matter  from  the  outside,  simply  as  a  student  of 
the  ways  of  animals,  I  am  surprised  at  the  outcry 
made  against  Mr.  Long's  order,  especially  here  in 
London,  where  there  is  so  great  a  multitude  of 
quite  useless  animals.  No  doubt  a  large  majority 
of  the  dogs  of  the  metropolis  are  household  pets, 
pure  and  simple,  living  indoors  in  the  same  rooms 
as  their  owners,  in  spite  of  their  inconvenient 
instincts.  On  this  subject  I  have  had  my  say  in 
an  article  on  "  The  Great  Dog  Superstition,"  for 
which  I  have  been  well  abused;  the  only  instinct 
of  the  dog  with  which  I  am  concerned  at  present 
is  that  of  pugnacity.  This  is  like  his  love  of  certain 
smells  disgusting  to  us,  part  and  parcel  of  his 
being,  so  that  for  a  dog  to  be  perfectly  gentle  and 
without  the  temper  that  barks  and  bites  must  be 


DOGS  IN  LONDON  253 

taken  as  evidence  of  its  decadence — not  of  the 
individual  but  of  the  race  or  breed  or  variety. 
Whether  this  fact  is  known  or  only  dimly  surmised 
by  dog-lovers,  more  especially  by  those  who  set 
the  fashion  in  dogs,  we  see  that  in  recent  years 
there  has  been  a  distinct  reaction  against  the  more 
degenerate  kinds  *  —  those  in  whose  natures  the 
jackal  and  wild-dog  writing  has  quite  or  all  but 
faded  out — the  numerous  small  toy  terriers;  the 
Italian  greyhound,  shivering  like  an  aspen  leaf; 
the  drawing-room  pug,  ugliest  of  man's  (the 
breeder's)  many  inventions;  the  pathetic  Blenheim 
and  King  Charles  spaniels,  the  Maltese,  the 
Pomeranian,  and  all  the  others  that  have,  so  to 
speak,  rubbed  themselves  out  by  acquiring  a  white 
liver  to  please  their  owners'  fantastic  tastes.  A 
more  vigorous  beast  is  now  in  favour,  and  one  of 
the  most  popular  is  undoubtedly  the  fox-terrier. 
This  is  assuredly  the  doggiest  dog  we  possess,  the 
most  aggressive,  born  to  trouble  as  the  sparks  fly 
upward.  From  my  own  point  of  view  it  is  only 
right  that  fox-terriers  and  all  other  good  fighters 
should  have  liberty  to  go  out  daily  into  the  streets 
in  their  thousands  in  search  of  shindies,  to  strive 
with  and  worry  one  another  to  their  hearts'  content; 


1  Alas !  since  these  notes  were  made,  fourteen  years  ago,  there  has 
been  a  recrudescence  of  the  purely  woman's  drawing-room  pet  dog. 
The  wretched  griffon,  looking  like  a  mean  cheap  copy  of  the  little 
Yorkshire — one  of  the  few  small  pet  animals  which  has  not  wholly  lost 
its  soul — appears  to  have  vanished.  But  the  country  has  now  been 
flooded  with  the  Pekinese,  and  one  is  made  to  loathe  it  from  the 
constant  sight  of  it  in  every  drawing-room  and  railway  carriage  and 
motor-car  and  omnibus,  clasped  in  a  woman's  arms. 


254    THE  BOOK  OF  A  NATURALIST 

then  to  skulk  home,  smelling  abominably  of  carrion 
and  carnage,  and,  hiding  under  their  master's  sofa, 
or  other  dark  place,  to  spend  the  time  licking  their 
wounds  until  they  are  well  again  and  ready  to  go 
out  in  search  of  fresh  adventures.  For  God  hath 
made  them  so. 

But  this  is  by  no  means  the  view  of  the  gentle 
ladies  and  mild-tempered  gentlemen  who  own  them, 
nor,  I  dare  say,  of  any  canophihst,  whether  the 
owner  of  a  dog  or  not.  What  these  people  want 
is  that  their  canine  friends  shall  have  the  same 
liberty  enjoyed  by  themselves  to  make  use  of  our 
streets  and  parks  without  risk  of  injury  or  insult; 
that  they  shall  be  free  to  notice  or  not  the  saluta- 
tions and  advances  of  others  of  their  kind;  to 
graciously  accept  or  contemptuously  refuse,  with 
nose  in  air,  according  to  the  mood  they  may  happen 
to  be  in  or  to  the  state  of  their  digestive  organs,  an 
invitation  to  a  game  of  romps.  This  liberty  and 
safety  they  do  now  undoubtedly  enjoy,  thanks  to 
the  much-abused  muzzling  order. 

It  is  true  that  to  the  canine  mind  this  may  not 
be  an  ideal  liberty:  "For  on  a  knight  that  hath 
neither  hardihood  nor  valour  in  himself,  may  not 
another  knight  that  hath  more  force  in  him  reason- 
ably prove  his  mettle;  for  many  a  time  have  I 
heard  say  that  one  is  better  than  other."  These 
words,  spoken  by  the  Best  Knight  in  the  World, 
exactly  fit  the  case  of  the  fox-terrier,  or  any  other 
vigorous  variety  whose  one  desire  when  he  goes 
out    into    the    world    is    reasonably    to    prove    his 


DOGS  IN  LONDON  255 

mettle.  'Tis  an  ancient  and  noble  principle  of 
action,  conceivably  advantageous  in  certain  circum- 
stances; but  in  the  conditions  in  whjfh  we  human 
beings  find  ourselves  placed  it  is  not  tolerated,  and 
the  valour  and  hardihood  of  our  Perclvals  may  no 
longer  shine  in  the  dark  forests  of  this  modern 
world. 

Is  it,  then,  so  monstrous  a  thing,  so  great  a 
tyranny,  that  the  same  restraint  which  has  this 
long  time  been  put  upon  the  best  and  brightest 
of  our  own  kind  should  now,  for  the  pubhc  good, 
be  imposed  on  our  four  -  footed  companions  and 
servants!  True,  we  think  solely  of  ourselves  when 
we  impose  the  restraint,  but  incidentally  (and 
entirely  apart  from  the  question  of  rabies)  we  are 
at  the  same  time  giving  the  greatest  protection  to 
the  dogs  themselves.  Furthermore — and  here  we 
come  to  the  point  which  mainly  concerns  us — the 
reflex  effect  of  the  muzzle  on  the  dogs  themselves 
may  now  be  seen  to  be  purely  beneficial.  Confining 
ourselves  to  London,  the  change  in  the  animals' 
disposition,  or  at  all  events  behaviour,  has  been 
very  remarkable.  It  has  forcibly  reminded  me  of 
the  change  of  temper  I  have  witnessed  in  a  rude, 
semi  -  barbarous  community  when  some  one  in 
authority  has  issued  an  order  that  at  all  festivals 
and  other  pubhc  gatherings  every  man  shall  yield 
up  his  weapons  —  knives,  pistols,  iron  -  handled 
whips,  etc. — to  some  person  appointed  to  receive 
them,  or  be  turned  back  from  the  gates.  The 
result  of  such  a  general  disarmament  has  been  an 


256    THE  BOOK  OF  A  NATURALIST 

all-round  improvement  in  temper,  a  disposition  of 
the  people  to  mix  freely  instead  of  separating  into 
well-defined  groups,  each  with  some  famous  fight- 
ing-man, wearing  a  knife  as  long  as  a  sword,  for 
its  centre;  also  instead  of  wild  and  whirling  words, 
dust  raised,  and  blood  shed,  great  moderation  in 
language,  good  humour,  and  reasonableness  in 
argument. 

In  the  same  way  we  may  see  that  our  dogs 
grow  less  and  less  quarrelsome  as  they  become 
more  conscious  of  their  powerlessness  to  inflict 
injury.  Their  confidence,  and  with  it  their  friend- 
liness towards  one  another,  increases;  the  most 
masterful  or  truculent  cease  from  bullying,  the 
timid  outgrow  their  timidity,  and  in  their  new- 
found glad  courage  dare  to  challenge  the  fiercest 
among  them  to  a  circular  race  and  rough-and- 
tumble  on  the  grass. 

Now  all  this,  from  the  point  of  view  of  those 
who  make  toys  of  sentient  and  intelligent  beings, 
is  or  should  be  considered  pure  gain.  Moreover, 
this  undoubted  improvement  could  not  have  come 
about  if  the  muzzle  had  been  the  painful  instrument 
that  some  dog-owners  believe  or  say.  It  seems  to  me 
that  those  who  cry  out  against  torturing  our  dogs, 
as  they  put  it,  do  not  love  their  pets  wisely  and 
are  bad  observers.  Undoubtedly  every  restraint 
is  in  some  degree  disagreeable,  but  it  is  only  when 
an  animal  has  been  deprived  of  the  power  to 
exercise  his  first  faculties  and  obey  his  most  impor- 
tunate   impulses    that    the    restraint    can    properly 


DOGS  IN  LONDON  257 

be  described  as  painful.  Take  the  case  of  a  chained 
dog;  he  is  miserable,  as  any  one  may  see  since 
there  are  many  dogs  in  that  condition,  because 
eternally  conscious  of  the  restraint;  and  the  per- 
petual craving  for  liberty,  like  that  of  the  healthy 
energetic  man  immured  in  a  cell,  rises  to  positive 
torture.  Again,  we  know  that  smell  is  the  most 
important  sense  of  the  dog,  that  it  is  as  much  to 
him  as  vision  to  the  bird;  consequently,  to  deprive 
him  of  the  use  of  this  all-important  faculty  by,  let 
us  say,  plugging  up  his  nostrils,  or  by  destroying 
the  olfactory  nerve  in  some  devilish  way  known 
to  the  vivisectors,  would  be  to  make  him  perfectly 
miserable,  just  as  the  destruction  of  its  sense  of 
sight  would  make  a  bird  miserable.  By  comparison 
the  restraint  of  the  muzzle  is  very  slight  indeed: 
smell,  hearing,  vision  are  unaffected,  and  there  is 
no  interference  with  free  locomotion;  indeed  so 
slight  is  the  restraint  that  after  a  while  the  animal 
is  for  the  most  part  unconscious  of  it  except  when 
the  impulse  to  bite  or  to  swallow  a  luscious  bit  of 
carrion  is  excited. 

We  frequently  see  or  hear  of  dogs  that  joyfully 
run  off  to  fetch  their  muzzles  when  they  are  called 
to  go  out  for  a  walk,  or  even  before  they  are  called 
if  they  but  see  any  preparations  being  made  for  a 
walk:  no  person  will  contend  that  these  are  made 
unhappy  by  the  muzzle,  or  that  they  deliberately 
weigh  two  evils  in  their  mind  and  make  choice  of 
the  lesser.  The  most  that  may  be  said  is  that  these 
muzzle  -  f etchers  are  exceptions,  though  they  may 


258    THE  BOOK  OF  A  NATURALIST 

be  somewhat  numerous.  For  how  otherwise  can 
the  fact  he  explained  that  some  dogs,  however 
ready  and  anxious  to  go  for  a  walk  they  may  be, 
will,  on  catching  sight  of  the  muzzle,  turn  away 
with  tail  between  their  legs  and  the  expression  of 
a  dog  that  has  been  kicked  or  unjustly  rebuked? 
My  experience  is  that  this  attitude  towards  the 
muzzle  of  some  dogs,  which  was  quite  common 
in  the  early  muzzling  days,  is  now  rare  and  is  dying 
out.  The  explanation,  I  think,  is  that  as  the 
muzzle  is  at  first  keenly  felt  as  a  restraint,  imposed 
for  no  cause  that  the  dog  sees,  it  is  in  fact  taken 
as  a  punishment,  and  resented  as  much  as  an 
undeserved  blow  or  angry  word  would  be.  Every 
one  who  observes  dogs  must  be  familiar  with  the 
fact  that  they  do  very  often  experience  the  feeling 
of  injury  and  resentment  towards  their  human 
masters  and  companions.  As  a  rule  this  feeling 
vanishes  with  the  exciting  cause;  unfortunately, 
in  some  cases  the  sight  of  the  muzzle  becomes 
associated  with  the  feeling  and  is  slow  to  disappear. 
But  if  dogs  still  exist  in  this  city  of  dogs  that 
show  any  sign  of  such  a  feeling  when  a  muzzle  is 
held  up  before  them,  we  can  see  that  even  in  these 
super-sensitive  ones  it  vanishes  the  instant  they 
are  out  of  doors.  Again,  let  any  person  watch  the 
scores  and  hundreds  of  dogs  that  disport  themselves 
in  our  grassy  parks  on  any  fine  day,  and  he  will 
quickly  be  convinced  that  not  only  are  they  happy 
but  that  they  are  far  happier  than  any  company 
of  unmuzzled  dogs  thrown  casually  together.    They 


DOGS  IN  LONDON  259 

are  happier,  madly  happy,  because  they  know — 
this  knowledge  having  now  jfiltered  down  into  their 
souls — that  it  is  perfectly  safe  for  them  to  associate 
with  their  fellows,  to  be  hail-fellow-well-met  with 
all  the  dogs  in  the  place,  from  the  tiniest  trembling 
lap-dog  to  the  burliest  and  most  truculent-looking 
bull-dog  and  the  most  gigantic  St.  Bernard  or 
Danish  boarhound.  It  is  for  us  a  happiness  to  see 
their  confidence,  their  mad  games,  the  way  they 
all  chase  and  tumble  over  one  another,  pretending 
to  be  furious  and  fighting  a  grand  battle. 

I  do  not  say  that  there  is  any  radical  or  any 
permanent  change  in  the  dog's  character.  Like 
other  beasts,  he  is  morally  and  mentally  non- 
progressive; that  which  the  uninformed  canophilist 
takes  as  progression  is  merely  decadence.  Remove 
the  muzzle,  and  in  a  short  time  the  habit  which 
the  muzzle  has  bred  will  fade  away  and  the  old 
bickerings  and  bullyings  and  blood-sheddings  begin 
afresh.  As  it  is,  some  dogs  refuse  to  let  their 
fighting  temper  rust  in  spite  of  the  muzzle. 

In  Hyde  Park  some  time  ago  I  witnessed  a 
sublime  but  bloodless  battle  between  a  Danish 
boarhound  and  a  bull-dog.  Neither  of  them  lost 
consciousness  of  the  muzzle  which  prevented  them 
from  "  washing "  their  teeth  in  one  another's 
blood;  they  simply  dashed  themselves  against 
each  other,  then  drew  back  and  dashed  together 
again  and  again,  with  such  fury  that  they  would, 
no  doubt,  have  succeeded  in  injuring  each  other 
had  not  their  owners,   assisted  by  several  persons 


260    THE  BOOK  OF  A  NATURALIST 

who  were  looking  on,  succeeded  in  drawing  them 
apart. 

One  more  instance  of  many  which  I  have 
observed  during  the  last  two  years.  This  is  of  a 
rather  large  and  exceptionally  powerful  fox-terrier, 
who  when  out  for  a  walk  keeps  a  very  sharp  look- 
out for  other  dogs,  and  the  instant  he  spies  one 
not  bigger  than  himself  charges  him  furiously  and 
with  the  impact  hurls  him  to  the  ground,  and, 
leaving  him  there,  he  dashes  on  in  search  of  a 
fresh  victim. 

These  are,  however,  exceptions,  few  individuals 
having  intelligence  enough  to  find  out  a  new  way 
of  inflicting  injury.  As  a  rule  the  dog  of  ineradic- 
ably  savage  temper  looks  at  his  fellows  as  if  saying, 
"  Oh,  for  five  minutes  with  this  cursed  muzzle 
off!  "  And  the  others,  seeing  his  terrible  aspect, 
are  glad  that  the  muzzle  is  on — a  blessed  muzzle 
it  is  to  them;  and  if  they  only  knew  what  the 
doggie  people  were  saying  in  the  papers  and  could 
express  their  views  on  the  subject,  many  of  them 
would  be  heard  to  cry  out,  "  Save  us  from  our 
friends ! " 

The  muzzling  order  had  thus  appeared  to  me 
as  a  sort  of  Golden  Age  of  the  metropolitan  dogs 
— and  cats,  for  these  too  had  incidentally  been 
affected  and  strangely  altered  in  their  habits.  And 
here  I  must  say  that  all  I  wrote  in  my  note-book 
about  the  dogs  during  and  just  after  the  muzzling 
period  has  been  compressed  into  as  short  a  space 


DOGS  IN  LONDON  261 

as  possible,  and  all  I  wrote  about  the  cats  (as 
indirectly  affected  by  the  order)  has  been  left  out 
for  want  of  space  to  deal  with  the  entire  subject  in 
a  single  chapter. 

When  dog-owners  were  rejoicing  to  hear  that 
the  Board  of  Agriculture  had  come  to  the  conclusion 
that  rabies  had  been  completely  stamped  out,  and 
were  eagerly  looking  forward  to  the  day  when  they 
would  be  allowed  to  remove  the  hated  muzzle  from 
their  pets,  the  prospect  did  not  seem  a  very  pleasant 
one  to  me  and  to  many  others  who  kept  no  pets. 
I  was  prepared  once  more  for  the  old  familiar  but 
unforgotten  spectacle  of  a  big  dog-fight  in  the 
streets  producing  a  joyful  excitement  in  a  crowd, 
quickly  sprung  out  of  the  stones  of  the  pavement 
as  it  were,  of  loafers  and  wastrels  of  all  kinds — 
keen  sportsmen  every  one  of  them — a  spectacle 
which  v/as  witnessed  every  day  by  any  person  who 
took  a  walk  in  London  before  the  muzzling  time. 
These  scenes  would  be  common  again:  in  one  day 
the  dogs'  (and  cats')  dream  of  perpetual  peace 
would  be  ended,  and  all  canines  of  a  lofty  spirit 
would  go  forth  again  like  the  good  Arthurian  knight 
and  the  Zulu  warrior  to  wash  his  long-unused 
weapons  in  an  adversary's  blood.  But  I  was 
wrong.  A  habit  had  been  formed  in  those  two  and 
a  half  years  of  restraint  which  did  not  lose  its 
power  at  once:  the  something  new  which  had 
come  into  the  dog's  heart  still  held  him.  But  it 
would  not,  it  could  not,  hold  him  long. 

Days     followed     and     nothing     happened  —  the 


262    THE  BOOK  OF  A  NATURALIST 

Golden  Age  was  still  on.  I  walked  the  streets  and 
watched  and  waited;  then,  when  nearly  a  week 
had  elapsed,  I  witnessed  a  fine  old-fashioned  dog- 
fight, with  two  dogs  in  a  tangle  on  the  ground 
biting  and  tearing  each  other  with  incredible  fury 
and  with  all  the  growls  and  shrieks  and  other 
warlike  noises  appropriate  to  the  occasion.  From 
all  parts  around  the  "  wond'ring  neighbours  ran  " 
to  look  on,  even  as  in  former  times  down  to  the 
blessed  year  1897. 

"Just  as  I  thought!"  I  exclaimed,  and  heartily 
wished  that  the  President  of  the  Board  of  Agricul- 
ture had  made  the  muzzling  order  a  perpetual  one. 

Other  days  and  weeks  followed  and  I  witnessed 
no  serious  quarrel,  and  later  it  was  so  rare  to  see 
a  dog-fight  in  the  streets  and  parks,  fights  which 
one  used  to  witness  every  day,  that  I  began  to 
think  the  new  pacific  habit  had  got  a  tighter  grip 
on  the  aninial  than  I  could  have  believed.  It 
would,  I  thought,  perhaps  take  them  two  or  three 
months  to  outgrow  it  and  go  back  to  their  true 
natures. 

I  was  wrong  again:  not  months  only  but  years 
have  gone  by — fourteen  to  fifteen  years — and  the 
beneficent  change  which  had  been  wrought  in  those 
thirty  months  of  restraint  about  which  so  great  a 
pother  was  made  at  the  time  by  dog-owners  has 
continued  to  the  present  time. 

We  may  say  that  in  more  senses  than  one  the 
dogs  (and  cats)  of  the  London  of  to-day  are  not 
the  same  beings  we  were  familiar  with  in  the  pre- 


DOGS  IN  LONDON  263 

muzzling  days.  The  object  of  that  order  we  have 
seen  was  gained  in  the  brief  period  of  thirty  months. 
Hydrophobia  for  the  first  time  in  the  annals  of 
England  had  ceased  to  exist,  and  so  long  as  the 
quarantine  law  is  faithfully  observed  will  perhaps 
never  return.  Rabies  broke  out  again  in  this 
country  in  1917,  its  first  reappearance  since  1897, 
owing  to  some  person  having  succeeded  in  eluding 
the  quarantine  order  and  bringing  an  infected  dog 
to  Plymouth.  From  that  centre  it  spread  to 
other  parts  of  Devon  and  to  Cornwall,  and 
despite  the  prompt  action  of  the  authorities  in 
imposing  a  new  muzzling  order  in  these  two 
counties,  the  infection  has  spread  to  other  parts 
of  the  country,  and  new  muzzling  orders  are 
being  issued  just  now  —  April  1919.  Up  till 
the  year  of  1897  the  average  number  of  persons 
who  perished  annually  as  the  result  of  a  dog  -  bite 
was  twenty  -  nine.  "  Well,  that's  not  many  in  a 
population  of  forty  millions,"  cried  the  canophilists; 
but  for  twenty  -  nine  who  actually  died  of  dog- 
madness,  the  most  horrible  shape  in  which  death 
can  appear  to  a  human  being,  there  were  hundreds, 
and  probably  thousands,  every  year  who  lived  for 
weeks  and  months  in  a  constant  state  of  appre- 
hension lest  some  slight  bite  or  abrasion  received 
from  the  tooth  of  an  angry  or  playful  dog  should 
result  in  that  frightful  malady. 

This  was  unquestionably  a  great,  a  very  great 
gain;  but  Mr.  Long  had  builded  better  than  he 
knew,  and  I  am  not  sure  that  the  accidental  result. 


264    THE  BOOK  OF  A  NATURALIST 

the  change  in  the  dog's  habits  in  one  particular, 
will  not  be  regarded  as  the  most  important  gain 
by  those  who  are  fond  of  dogs  and  by  all  who 
recognise  that,  in  spite  of  some  disgusting  instincts 
which  can't  be  changed,  the  dog  is  and  probably 
always  will  be  with  us — our  one  and  only  four- 
footed  associate. 


XXIV 

THE  GREAT  DOG-SUPERSTITION 

No  person  can  give  a  careful  and  loving  study  to 
animal  life  for  a  long  period  without  meeting  with 
species  exhibiting  aptitudes  of  which  a  great  deal 
might  be  made  in  a  domestic  state,  and  which, 
together  with  their  beauty  and  cleanly  habits, 
seem  specially  to  fit  them  for  companionship  with 
man  in  a  greater  degree  than  those  which  we  now 
possess.  For  it  is  an  undoubted  fact  that  some 
animals  are  more  intelligent  than  others,  slight 
differences  in  this  respect  being  perceptible  even 
among  the  species  of  a  single  group  or  genus.  We 
measure  the  animal  mind  by  ours;  and  looking 
down  from  the  summit  of  our  mountain  the  earth 
beneath  us  at  first  seems  level;  but  it  is  not  quite 
level,  as  we  are  able  to  see  by  regarding  it  atten- 
tively. Even  more  important  are  the  differences 
in  temper,  ranging  from  the  morose  and  truculent 
to  the  placable  and  sweet;  more  important, 
because  compared  with  this  diversity  in  disposition 
that  which  we  find  in  intelligence  is  not  great. 
There  are  also  animals  solitary  by  nature,  and 
almost    or    quite    incapable    of    any     attachment 

265 


266     THE  BOOK  OF  A  NATURALIST 

excepting  that  of  the  sexes;  while  others  are 
gregarious  or  social,  and  able  to  form  attach- 
ments not  only  among  themselves,  but  also  with 
those  of  other  species,  and,  when  domesticated, 
with  man.  There  is  a  third  matter,  which  is  doubt- 
less the  most  important  of  all,  to  be  considered 
when  weighing  the  comparative  advantages  of 
different  kinds,  namely,  the  habits,  or  instincts, 
which  change  so  slowly  that  they  are  practically 
immutable,  even  in  altered  conditions,  and  which, 
in  the  domesticated  or  pet  animal,  according  to 
their  character,  may  prove  a  source  of  pleasure  and 
profit  to  man,  or,  on  the  contrary,  a  perpetual 
annoyance  and  trouble.  When  our  progenitors  far 
back  in  time  tamed  the  animals  we  now  possess,  it 
cannot  be  supposed  that  they  expended  much 
thought  on  such  considerations  as  these:  probably 
chance  determined  everything  for  them,  and  they 
took  and  tamed  the  animals  which  came  first  to 
hand,  or  which  promised  to  be  most  useful  to  them, 
either  as  food  or  in  assisting  them  to  procure  food. 
If  they  were  barbarians  they  would  think  little  of 
beauty,  little  of  the  small  differences  in  intelligence, 
and  of  the  much  greater  differences  in  disposition, 
and,  naturally,  nothing  at  all  about  certain  instincts 
in  some  animals  which  would  become  increasingly 
repugnant  to  man  in  a  civilised  state. 

We  have  the  dog  so  constantly  with  us;  the 
grand  result  of  centuries  of  artificial  selection  and 
training  is  so  patent  to  every  one,  that  we  have 
actually  come  to  look  on  this  animal  as  by  nature 


THE  GREAT  DOG-SUPERSTITION  267 

superior  in  mental  endowment,  genial  qualities,  and 
general  adaptiveness  to  all  others.  Yet  the  qualities 
which  make  the  dog  valuable  to  us  now  formed  no 
part  of  its  original  character;  it  is  valuable  chiefly 
for  its  various  instinctive  tendencies,  and  these  are 
a  later  growth  and  purely  the  result  of  individual 
spontaneous  variations,  and  of  man's  unconscious 
selection.  The  dog's  affection  for  his  master — the 
anxiety  to  be  constantly  with  and  to  be  noticed 
and  caressed  by  him,  the  impatience  at  his  absence 
and  grief  at  his  loss,  and  the  courage  to  defend  him 
and  his  house  and  his  belongings  from  strangers — 
this  affection  of  which  we  are  accustomed  to  think 
so  highly,  regarding  it  as  something  unique  in 
Nature,  is  in  reality  a  very  small  and  a  very  low 
thing;  and  by  low  is  here  meant  common  in  the 
animal  world,  for  it  exists  in  a  great  many,  prob- 
ably in  a  large  majority,  of  mammahan  brains  in 
every  order  and  every  family.  Nor  is  it  confined 
to  mammalians.  The  duck  does  not  occupy  a 
distinguished  place  in  the  scale  of  being,  and  the 
lame  duck  that  attached  itself  to  Mr.  Caxton,  and 
affectionately  followed  him  up  and  down  in  his 
walk,  might  seem  an  exceptionally  gifted  bird  to 
those  who  know  little  of  animal  life.  It  is  of 
course  here  assumed  that  Bulwer  did  not  invent 
the  lame  duck:  a  peacock  or  bird  of  paradise, 
with  all  its  organs  complete,  would  have  suited  his 
fancy  better.  Probably  the  incident  —  for  such 
incidents  are  very  common — was  told  to  him  as 
true,  and  thinking  that   it  would  give   a  touch  of 


268    THE  BOOK  OF  A  NATURALIST 

reality  and  homely  pathos  to  the  description  of 
Mr.  Caxton's  mild  and  lovable  character  he  intro- 
duced it  into  his  novel.  A  friend  of  the  writer 
owned  a  duck  far  more  worthy  of  admiration  than 
Bulwer's  immortal  bird.  This  was  not  a  domestic 
duck,  but  a  teal,  which  he  brought  down  with  his 
gun  slightly  wounded  in  the  wing,  and  feeling  all 
at  once  a  strange  compassion  for  it,  he  tied  it  up 
in  a  handkerchief  and  carried  it  to  his  home  in  the 
suburbs  of  a  large  town.  The  captive  was  turned 
into  a  courtyard  and  its  wants  attended  to;  it 
soon  grew  accustomed  to  its  new  mode  of  existence, 
and  furthermore  became  strongly  attached  to  all 
the  members  of  the  family,  seeking  for  them  in  the 
rooms  when  it  felt  lonely,  and  always  exhibiting 
distress  of  mind  and  anger  in  the  presence  of 
strangers.  When  a  cat  or  dog  was  fondled  in  its 
presence  it  would  run  to  the  spot,  administer  a  few 
vindictive  blows  to  the  animal  with  its  soft  bill, 
and  solicit  a  caress  for  itself.  The  most  curious 
thing  in  its  history  was  that  it  took  a  special  liking 
to  its  captor,  and  singled  him  out  for  its  most 
marked  attentions.  When  he  went  away  to  business 
in  the  morning  the  teal  would  accompany  him  to 
the  street  door  to  see  him  off,  returning  afterwards 
contentedly  to  the  yard;  and  in  the  afternoon  it 
would  again  repair  to  the  door,  always  left  open, 
and  standing  composedly  on  the  middle  of  the 
step  wait  its  master's  return — for  this  teal  took 
count  of  time.  If,  while  it  stood  there  watching 
the   road,   a  stranger  came   in,   it   would  open   its 


THE  GREAT  DOG-SUPERSTITION  269 

beak  and  hiss  and  strike  at  his  legs,  showing  as 
much  suspicion  and  "  sense  of  proprietorship  "  as 
a  dog  does  when  it  barks  and  snaps  at  a  visitor. 
Its  owner's  arrival  would  be  greeted  with  demonstra- 
tions of  affection  and  joy,  and  following  him  into 
the  house  it  would  spend  an  hour  or  two  very 
happily  if  allowed  to  sit  on  his  feet,  or  nestling  close 
against  them  on  the  hearth-rug. 

The  behaviour  of  this  poor  teal  might  seem  a 
very  great  thing,  but  it  amounts  to  very  little 
after  all;  the  memory  that  all  animals  have,  and 
perhaps  a  little  judgement — the  "  small  dose  of 
reason "  which  Huber  found  that  even  insects 
possessed — and  attachment  to  the  beings  it  was 
accustomed  to  see  and  associate  with,  and  who 
attended  to  all  its  wants  and  gently  caressed  it. 
In  the  matter  of  the  affections  it  has  no  advantage 
even  over  Darwin's  celebrated  snail.  No  doubt  the 
self-sacrificing  snail  proved  too  much  for  Darwin's 
argument,  as  Professor  Mivart  has  pointed  out; 
fortunately  the  case  of  the  teal,  which  can  be 
substantiated,  does  not  prove  too  much  for  the 
argument  contained  in  this  article.  To  be  astonished 
at  the  display  of  such  faculties  and  affections  in  a 
bird  so  low  down  in  the  scale  would  show  ignorance 
of  Nature.  And  there  is  no  doubt  that  most  men 
are  very  ignorant  about  her;  so  ignorant  that  if 
the  teal  had  the  place  in  our  life  which  belongs  to 
the  dog,  and  had  been  with  us  for  centuries,  a 
companion  and  pet  in  our  houses  to  the  exclusion 
of    other    kinds,    we    should    now    believe    that    it 


270    THE  BOOK  OF  A  NATURALIST 

surpassed  all  other  creatures  in  human-like  feelings; 
our  periodicals  would  teem  with  anecdotes  of  its 
marvellous  intelligence;  innumerable  books  would 
be  written  on  the  subject,  and  the  psychological 
biologists  would  put  it  next  to  man  in  their  systems, 
one  step  below  him  on  the  throne  of  life,  and  far 
above  the  general  herd  of  animals. 

It  is  a  fact,  that  might  well  stagger  belief  in  the 
dog's  superior  intellect,  that  mammalians  so  low 
down  as  rats  and  mice  when  properly  treated  and 
trained  make  attached  and  intelhgent  pets;  and 
that  a  mouse,  or  a  sparrow,  or  a  snake,  or  even  a 
creature  so  small  and  far  down  in  the  organic  scale 
as  a  flea,  may  be  taught,  without  very  great  diffi- 
culty, to  perform  tricks  which,  if  performed  by  a 
dog,  would  be  pronounced  very  clever  indeed. 
Most  people  who  witness  the  pretty  performances 
of  small  mammals,  birds  and  insects — which  are 
usually  up  to  the  level  of  the  dog's  performances 
seen  at  the  music-halls — probably  think,  if  they 
think  anything  at  all  about  the  matter,  that  the 
exhibitor  in  such  cases  is  the  possessor  of  a  mysteri- 
ous kind  of  talent  by  means  of  which  he  is  able  to 
make  these  small  creatures  come  for  a  few  moments 
out  of  the  instinctive  groove  they  move  in  to  do 
the  things  he  wishes,  much  as  little  toy  ducks  and 
swans,  which  are  hollow  inside,  are  made  to  swim 
round  in  a  basin  of  water  after  a  stick  of  loadstone; 
only  in  the  case  of  the  exhibitor  of  animals  the 
loadstone  is  hidden  from  the  spectators.  His 
trick,   or  mysterious   talent,   consists   in   the  know- 


THE  GREAT  DOG-SUPERSTITION  271 

ledge  that  the  animal  he  wishes  to  train  is  not  a 
little  hollow  duck  or  automaton,  but  that  it  has 
faculties  corresponding  to  the  lower  psychical 
faculties  in  man,  and  that  by  the  exercise  of  con- 
siderable patience  it  may  be  made,  when  the 
stimulus  is  applied,  to  repeat  again  and  again  a 
few  actions  in  the  same  order.  The  question  which 
concerns  us  to  know  is,  has  the  dose  of  reason  or 
have  these  lower  psychical  faculties  in  the  dog 
been  so  greatly  developed  during  its  long  com- 
panionship with  man  as  to  raise  it  a  great  deal 
nearer  to  man's  level,  and  place  a  great  gulf  be- 
tween its  mind  and  that  of  the  pig  or  the  crow? 
The  gulf  exists  only  in  our  imagination,  and  the 
"  development "  is  a  fairy-tale,  of  which  Science 
was  probably  not  the  original  author,  but  which 
she  has  thought  proper  to  include,  somewhat 
amplified  and  with  new  illustrations,  in  the  recent 
editions  of  her  collected  works.  The  dog,  taken 
directly  from  a  wild  life,  if  taken  young,  will  be 
tame  and  understand  and  obey  his  master — 
numerous  instances  are  on  record — and  if  patiently 
trained  will  perform  tricks  just  as  wonderful  as 
those  that  were  related  to  an  astonished  audience 
at  the  late  meeting  of  the  British  Association  by 
a  well-known  writer  and  authority  on  zoological 
science.  And  in  the  mammalian  division  there  are 
hundreds  of  species,  some  higher,  some  lower  than 
the  dog,  which  may  be  taught  the  same  things,  or 
other  things  equally  wonderful.  These  greatly 
vaunted  performances  of  the  dog  only  prove  that 


272    THE  BOOK  OF  A  NATURALIST 

its  mind  is,  and  ever  will  be,  what  it  was  when, 
thousands  of  years  ago,  some  compassionate  woman 
took  the  pup  her  owner  threw  into  her  arms,  and 
reared  it,  suckling  it  perhaps  at  her  own  breast; 
and  when  in  after  days  it  followed  at  the  heels  of 
its  savage  master  and  astonished  him  by  assisting 
in  the  capture  of  his  quarry. 

It  is  not,  then,  the  dog's  intelligence,  which  is 
less  than  that  of  many  other  species,  and  is  non- 
progressive in  spite  of  all  that  training  and  selection 
can  do,  which  makes  it  valuable  to  us.  Nor  has 
it  any  advantage  over  other  species  in  those 
qualities  of  affection,  fidelity,  and  good  temper 
about  which  we  hear  so  much  rapturous  language; 
for  these  things  are  lower  down  than  reason  and 
exist  throughout  the  mammalian  world,  in  animals 
high  and  low,  little  and  big,  from  the  harvest  mouse 
to  the  hippopotamus.  The  dog  is  more  valuable 
to  us  than  other  species  because  we  have  got  him. 
We  inherited  him  and  were  thereby  saved  a  large 
amount  of  trouble.  He  is  tame;  the  others  are 
wild.  His  intellect  is  small  and  stationary,  but  his 
structure  is  variable,  and,  more  important  still,  so 
are  his  instincts;  or  perhaps  it  would  be  more 
correct  to  say  that  new  propensities,  which  often 
prove  hereditary,  and  which  by  selection  and 
training  may  be  fixed  and  strengthened  until  they 
are  made  to  resemble  instincts,  are  of  frequent 
occurrence  in  him.  The  more  or  less  settled  pro- 
pensities in  our  domestic  animals,  originating  in 
the    domestic    state,    are    no    doubt    in    one    sense 


THE  GREAT  DOG-SUPERSTITION  273 

instincts,  since  they  are  of  the  nature  of  instinct 
and  its  beginnings;  but  the  difference  between 
them  and  the  true  natural  instinct,  which  has  had 
incalculable  time  to  crystallise  in,  is  greater  than 
can  be  expressed.  The  last  is  the  rock  and  eternal; 
the  others  are  snow-flakes,  formed  in  a  moment, 
that  settle  and  show  white,  and  even  before  our 
sight  is  withdrawn  melt  away  and  vanish.  This 
same  variability,  or  habit  of  varying,  is  in  some 
vague  way  taken  as  a  proof  of  versatihty;  hence 
one  reason  of  the  popular  notion  that  the  dog  is 
so  vastly  superior  to  other  four-footed  creatures. 
If  a  dog  could  be  taught  to  turn  a  spit,  find  truffles, 
save  a  man  from  drowning  or  from  perishing  in  a 
snow-drift,  point  out  a  partridge,  retrieve  a  wounded 
duck,  kill  twenty  rats  in  as  many  seconds,  and  herd 
a  flock  of  sheep,  then  it  would  indeed  be  an  animal 
to  marvel  at.  These  are  special  instincts  or  in- 
cipient instincts,  and  to  bestow  such  epithets  as 
"  generous  "  and  "  noble  "  on  a  dog  for  pulling  a 
drowning  man  out  of  the  water,  or  scratching  him 
out  of  a  snow-drift,  is  fully  as  irrational  as  it  would 
be  to  call  the  swallow  and  cuckoo  intrepid  explorers 
of  the  Dark  Continent,  or  to  praise  the  hive-bees  of 
the  working  caste  for  their  chastity,  loyalty,  and 
patriotism,  and  for  their  profound  knowledge  of 
chemistry  and  the  higher  mathematics,  as  shown 
in  their  works.  Cross  the  dogs  and  these  various 
propensities,  which  being  useful  to  man  and  not 
to  the  animals  themselves  are  preserved  artificially, 
fade  away  and  disappear,  and  from  moving  arti- 


274    THE  BOOK  OF  A  NATURALIST 

ficially  apart  in  twenty  different  grooves  the 
animals  all  revert  to  the  one  old  simple  groove  in 
which  they  were  first  found  by  man.  This  much 
may  then  be  said  in  favour  of  the  dog:  he  is  plastic. 
The  plasticity  is  probably  due  to  domestication,  to 
the  variety  of  conditions  to  which  he  is  subjected 
as  man's  companion  in  all  regions  of  the  globe, 
the  selection  which  separates  and  preserves  new 
varieties  as  they  arise,  and  the  crossing  again  of 
widely  separated  breeds.  That  he  is  plastic  must 
be  our  excuse  for  determining  to  make  the  most 
we  can  of  him  to  the  complete  exclusion  of  all 
other  species,  which  might  or  might  not  prove 
plastic  in  the  same  degree.  The  fowl  and  pigeon 
are  plastic,  while  the  goose,  guinea-fowl,  pheasant, 
and  peacock  vary  little  or  not  at  all.  Nature  may 
have  better  things  than  the  dog,  but  we  cannot 
guess  her  secrets,  and  to  find  them  out  by  experi- 
ment would  take  a  very  long  time.  A  bird  in  the 
hand,  any  bird,  even  a  cock-sparrow,  is  better  than 
all  the  birds  of  paradise  that  are  in  the  bush.  The 
other  animals  will  serve  us  for  sport  while  they  last; 
and  when  they  are  gone  we  of  this  age  shall  be 
gone  too,  and  deaf  to  whatever  unkind  things  our 
posterity  may  say  of  us.  The  dog  is  with  us, 
esteemed  above  all  brutes,  our  favourite,  and  we 
shall  give  him  no  cause  for  jealousy. 

If  we  had  him  not,  if  we  had  never  had  him  or 
had  forgotten  his  memory,  and  were  to  go  out 
again  to  select  a  friend  and  companion  from  the 
beasts  of  the  field,  the  wild  dog  would  be  passed 


THE  GREAT  DOG-SUPERSTITION  275 

by  without  a  thought.  There  is  nothing  in  him  to 
attract,  but  on  the  contrary  much  to  repel.  In  a 
state  of  nature  he  is  an  animal  of  disgusting  habits, 
with  a  vulture-like  preference  for  dead  and  decom- 
posing meat.  Cowardly  he  also  is,  yet  when 
unopposed  displays  a  bloodthirstiness  almost  with- 
out a  parallel  among  true  beasts  of  prey.  Nor 
does  he  possess  any  compensating  beauty  or 
sagacity,  and  compared  with  many  carnivores  he 
is  neither  sharp-sighted  nor  fleet  of  foot.  Some 
keen  genealogist  might  be  tempted  to  ask.  Which 
wild  dog  is  here  meant?  He  may  follow  his  fancy 
and  choose  his  own  wild  dog  —  jackal,  dhole, 
baunsuah,  wolf;  or  take  them  all,  and  even 
include  the  coyote,  as  Darwin  did.  The  multiple 
origin  of  the  domestic  dog  is  by  no  means  an 
improbable  theory;  but  it  is  also  highly  probable 
that  the  jackal  had  by  far  the  largest  share  in  his 
parentage.  There  are  also  reasons  for  believing 
that  most  of  the  wild  dogs,  including  the  dingo, 
have  sprung  from  tame  breeds;  and,  as  a  fact, 
the  wild  dogs  with  which  the  writer  is  most  familiar 
are  known  to  be  the  descendants  of  domestic 
animals  which  ran  away  from  their  masters  and 
adopted  a  feral  life. 

Out  of  this  same  coarse  material  man,  uncon- 
sciously imitating  Nature's  method,  has  fashioned 
his  favourite;  or  rather,  since  the  dog  has  become 
so  divergent  in  his  keeping,  his  large  group  of 
favourites,  with  their  various  forms  and  propen- 
sities.    Only  now,  too  late  by  some  thousands  of 


276    THE  BOOK  OF  A  NATURALIST 

years,  lie  is  able  to  see  that  it  was  a  mistake  to  go 
so  low  in  the  first  place,  to  have  contentedly  taken 
base  metal,  dull-witted  barbarian  that  he  was, 
when  he  might  just  as  well  have  taken  gold.  For 
the  baseness  of  the  metal  shows  in  spite  of  much 
polishing  to  make  it  shine.  Polishing  powders 
we  have,  but  not  the  powders  of  projection;  and 
the  dog,  with  all  his  new  propensities,  remains 
mentally  a  jackal,  above  some  mammalians  and 
below  others;  nor  can  he  outlive  ancient,  obscene 
instincts  which  become  increasingly  offensive  as 
civilisation  raises  and  refines  his  master  man. 

How  did  our  belief  in  the  mental  superiority  of 
this  animal  come  to  exist?  Doubtless  it  came 
about  through  our  intimacy  with  the  dog,  in  the 
fields  where  he  helped  us,  and  in  our  houses  where 
we  made  a  pet  of  him,  together  with  our  ignorance 
of  the  true  character  of  other  animals.  All  animals 
were  to  us  simply  "  brutes  that  perish,"  and 
"  natural  brute  beasts  made  to  be  taken  and  de- 
stroyed," with  no  faculties  at  all  resembling 
ours;  and  when  it  was  discovered  that  the  dog 
could  be  made  to  understand  many  things,  and 
that  he  had  some  feelings  in  common  with  us, 
and  was  capable  of  great  affection,  which  sometimes 
caused  him  to  pine  at  his  master's  loss,  and  in 
some  instances  even  to  die  of  grief;  and  that  in 
all  these  things  he  was,  or  seemed  to  be,  widely 
separated  from  other  domestic  brutes,  the  notion 
grew  up  that  he  was  essentially  different,  an 
animal   set   apart   for   man's   benefit,    and,    finally, 


THE  GREAT  DOG-SUPERSTITION  277 

that  he  had  been  specially  created  for  such  an 
object.  Thus,  Youatt  says,  "  The  dog,  next  to  the 
human  being,  ranks  highest  in  intelligence,  and  was 
evidently  designed  to  be  the  companion  and  friend 
of  man";  and  in  another  place  he  says  that  it  is 
highly  probable  that  he  descended  from  no  such 
inferior  and  worthless  animal  as  the  jackal  or  wolf, 
but  was  originally  created,  somewhat  as  we  now 
find  him — the  associate  and  friend  of  man. 

This  was  not  so  very  hard  to  believe  in  the 
pre-Darwinian  days,  since  domesticated  dogs,  and 
even  some  of  the  breeds  which  we  now  possess,  were 
known  to  have  existed  between  three  and  four 
thousand  years  ago,  while  the  world  was  only 
supposed  to  have  existed  about  six  thousand  years. 
It  seems  probable  that  this  curious  superstition  of 
the  dog's  special  creation  grew  up  gradually  and 
only  became  popular  in  very  recent  times.  It  was 
gladly  seized  on  by  the  poets,  who  made  as  much 
out  of  it  as  they  had  formerly  done  out  of  the 
melody  of  the  dying  swan;  and  the  artists  were 
not  slow  in  following  their  example.  A  dog  may 
be  choked  with  pudding,  but  the  human  mind 
greedily  gulped  down  as  much  of  this  mawkish 
dog-sentiment  as  any  person,  with  misdirected 
talents,  chose  to  manufacture  for  it. 

Before  proceeding  with  the  story  of  our  dog 
superstition,  I  will  here  interpose  a  remark  anent 
that  which  obtains  in  the  other  half,  or  more  than 
half,  of  the  world — the  East.  "  The  people  of  the 
East,"  says  Youatt,   "  have  a  strange  superstition 


278    THE  BOOK  OF  A  NATURALIST 

with  regard  to  the  dog."  Strange  indeed,  almost 
incredible  to  our  properly  enlightened  Western 
minds!  We,  who  in  a  manner  despise  these 
"  people  of  the  East,"  and  object  to  many  of  their 
habits  with  regard  to  personal  cleanliness,  and  so 
on,  to  be  told  that  our  friend  and  associate  the 
dog,  our  pet  who  shares  our  living  and  sleeping 
rooms,  and  is  caressed  with  our  hands  and  lips,  is 
an  unclean  beast  and  unfit  to  be  touched  by  man! 
And  so  we  find  that  the  East  is  East,  and  the  West 
is  West,  with  regard  to  this  as  well  as  to  most 
things,  and  that  there  are  two  great  dog  supersti- 
tions. And  now  to  proceed  with  the  story  of  the 
one  which  is  ours. 

In  due  time  the  evolutionists  came,  teaching 
that  the  earth  is  old,  that  all  the  living  things  on 
it  are  the  descendants  of  one  or  of  a  very  few 
primordial  forms,  and  as  a  consequence  of  such 
teaching  the  special  creation  of  the  dog  was  no 
longer  tenable.  How  then  came  the  dog-super- 
stition— the  belief  in  its  superiority — to  survive  so 
rude  a  shock?  For  the  evolutionists  taught  that  all 
the  brutes  possess,  potentially  and  in  germ,  all  the 
faculties  found  in  man,  and  the  conclusion  seems 
unavoidable  that  there  must  be  a  correspondence  in 
the  physical  and  psychical  development,  and  that 
the  root  of  the  higher  mental  and  moral  powers 
must  exist  in  the  animals  of  the  highest  grades; 
that  the  mammal  must  be  more  rational  than  the 
bird,  and  the  bird  than  the  reptile,  and  the  reptile 
than    the    fish;    and    that    the    hyena,    civet,    and 


THE  GREAT  DOG-SUPERSTITION  279 

mongoose  are  nearer  to  us  than  the  dog,  the  cats 
above  the  mongoose,  and  the  monkeys  higher  still. 
Why  then  was  not  the  dog  relegated  to  a  lower 
place?  Dr.  Lauder  Lindsay  has  given  the  reason: 
"  The  mental  scale — the  scale  of  intellectual  and 
moral  development — is  not  quite  synonymous  with 
the  zoological  scale.  The  most  intellectual  and 
moral  animals  are  not  necessarily  those  nearest  to 
man  in  the  classification  commonly  adopted  by 
zoologists."  Furthermore  it  has  been  assumed  that 
contact  with  man  has  had  the  effect  of  enlarging 
the  dog's  mind,  and  making  him,  beyond  all  other 
animals,  intellectual,  moral,  and  even  religious. 

It  ought  to  be  a  great  comfort  to  those  who 
devote  themselves  to  canine  pets,  and  to  cano- 
philists  generally,  to  know  that  the  philosophers 
are  at  one  with  them.  To  some  others  it  will 
perhaps  add  a  new  terror  to  existence  if  students 
of  dog-psychology  generally  should  feel  themselves 
tempted  to  imitate  a  recent  illustrious  example, 
and  go  about  the  country  lecturing  on  the  mar- 
vellous development  of  mind  in  their  respective 
pets.  Leibnitz  once  gave  an  account  of  a  dog  that 
talked;  and  quite  recently  a  writer  in  a  London 
journal  related  how,  in  a  sheltered  spot  among  the 
rocks  on  a  lonely  Scotch  moor,  he  stumbled  on  an 
old  shepherd  playing  whist  with  his  collie.  Nothing 
approaching  to  these  cases  in  dramatic  interest  can 
be  looked  for  in  the  apprehended  discourses.  The 
animal  to  be  described  will  as  a  rule  be  of  a  quiet, 
thoughtful    character    proper    in     a    philosopher's 


280    THE  BOOK  OF  A  NATURALIST 

dog;  not  fond  of  display  or  much  given  to  wild 
flights  of  imagination.  He  will  only  show  that  he 
possesses  that  faculty  when  asleep  and  barking  at 
the  heels  of  a  dream-hare.  He  will  show  a  deep 
affection  for  his  master,  like  the  teal  spoken  of  in 
this  article;  also  a  strong  sense  of  proprietorship, 
again  like  the  teal  and  like  the  tame  snake  described 
by  White  of  Selborne — a  display  of  intellect  which 
strangely  simulates  an  instinct  common  to  all 
creatures.  And  he  will  also  show  an  intelligent 
curiosity,  and  examine  things  to  find  out  what 
they  are,  and  prove  himself  a  very  agreeable 
companion;  as  much  so  as  Mr.  Benjamin  Kidd's 
pet  humble-bee.  Moreover  he  will  be  accomplished 
enough  to  sit  up  and  beg,  retrieve  a  walking-stick 
from  the  Serpentine,  close  an  open  door,  etc.; 
and  besides  these  ordinary  things  he  will  do  things 
extraordinary,  such  as  picking  up  numbered  or 
lettered  cards,  red,  blue,  and  yellow,  at  his  master's 
bidding;  in  fact  such  tricks  as  a  pig  will  perform 
without  being  very  learned,  not  a  Porson  of  its 
kind,  but  only  possessing  the  ordinary  porcine 
abilities.  In  conclusion  the  lecturer  will  bring  up 
the  savage,  not  in  person,  but  a  savage  evolved 
from  his  inner  consciousness,  and  compare  its 
understanding  with  that  of  the  dog,  or  of  his  dog, 
and  the  poor  savage  will  have  very  much  the  worst 
of  it. 

We  have  come  to  the  end  of  the  dog's  mind,  and 
have  arrived  at  that  other  question  to  which  allusion 
has  been  made.     The  dog  has  a  body  as  well  as  a 


THE  GREAT  DOG-SUPERSTITION  281 

soul,  senses,  appetites,  and  instincts,  and  it  is 
worth  while  inquiring  whether  contact  with  man 
has  had  the  same  ameliorating  effect  on  these  as  it 
is  supposed  to  have  had  on  his  psychical  faculties. 
In  other  words,  has  he  ceased  to  be  a  jackal?  For 
if  a  negative  answer  must  be  given,  it  follows  that, 
however  fit  to  be  the  servant,  the  dog  is  scarcely- 
fit  to  be  the  intimate  associate  and  friend  of  man; 
for  friendship  implies  a  similarity  in  habits,  if 
nothing  more,  and  man  is  not  by  nature  an  unclean 
animal. 

Dr.  Romanes,  in  his  work  on  Mental  Evolution 
in  Animals,  speaks  of  what  he  calls  unpleasant 
survivals  in  the  dog,  such  as  burying  food  until  it 
becomes  offensive  before  eating  it,  turning  round 
and  round  on  the  hearth-rug  before  lying  down, 
rolling  in  filth,  etc.,  etc.,  and  he  says  that  they  have 
remained  unaffected  by  contact  with  man  because 
these  instincts  being  neither  useful  nor  harmful 
have  never  been  either  cultivated  or  repressed. 
From  which  it  may  be  inferred  that  in  his  opinion 
these  disagreeable  habits  may  be  got  rid  of  in 
time.  But  why  does  he  call  them  survivals?  If 
the  action,  so  frequently  observed  in  the  dog,  of 
turning  round  several  times  before  lying  down,  is 
correctly  ascribed  to  an  ancient  habit  in  the  wild 
animal  of  treading  down  the  grass  to  make  a  bed 
to  sleep  on,  it  is  rightly  called  a  survival,  and  is  a 
habit  neither  useful  nor  harmful  in  the  domesticated 
state,  which  has  never  been  either  cultivated  or 
repressed,  and  will  in  time  disappear.     Thus  far 


282    THE  BOOK  OF  A  NATURALIST 

it  is  easy  to  agree  with  Dr.  Romanes.  The  other 
offensive  instinct  of  the  dog,  of  which  burying  meat 
to  make  it  putrid,  rolhng  in  filth,  etc.,  etc.,  are 
different  manifestations,  is  not  a  survival,  in  the 
sense  in  which  zoologists  use  that  word,  any  more 
than  the  desire  of  the  well-fed  cat  for  the  canary, 
and  of  the  hen-hatched  ducklings  for  the  pond,  are 
survivals.  These  are  important  instincts  which 
have  never  ceased  to  operate.  The  dog  is  a  flesh- 
eater  with  a  preference  for  carrion,  and  his  senses 
of  taste  and  smell  are  correlated,  and  carrion 
attracts  him  just  as  fruit  attracts  the  frugivorous 
bat.  Man's  smelhng  sense  and  the  dog's  do  not 
correspond;  they  are  inverted,  and  what  is  delight- 
ful to  one  is  disgusting  to  the  other.  "  A  cur's 
tail  may  be  warmed  and  pressed  and  bound  round 
with  ligatures,  and  after  twelve  years  of  labour 
bestowed  on  it,  it  will  retain  its  original  form," 
is  an  Oriental  saying.  In  like  manner  the  dog  may 
be  shut  up  in  an  atmosphere  of  opoponax  and 
frangipani  for  twelve  hundred  years  and  he  will 
love  the  smell  of  carrion  still.  When  the  dog  runs 
frisking  and  barking,  he  expresses  gladness;  and 
he  expresses  a  still  greater  degree  of  gladness  by 
madly  rolling,  feet  up,  on  the  grass,  uttering  a 
continuous  purring  growl.  The  discovery  of  a 
carrion  smell  on  the  grass  will  always  cause  the 
dog  to  behave  in  this  way.  It  is  the  something 
wanting  still  in  the  life  of  enforced  separation  from 
the  odours  that  dehght  him;  and  when  he  unex- 
pectedly discovers  a  thing  of  this  kind  his  joy  is 


THE  GREAT  DOG-SUPERSTITION  283 

uncontrolled.  His  sense  of  smell  is  much  keener 
than  ours;  it  is  probably  more  to  him  than  sight 
is  to  us;  he  lives  in  it,  and  the  odours  that  are 
agreeable  to  him  afford  him  the  highest  pleasure  of 
which  he  is  capable.  We  can  do  much  with  a  dog, 
but  there  is  a  limit  to  what  we  can  do;  we  can  no 
more  alter  the  character  of  his  sense  of  smell  than 
we  can  alter  the  colour  of  his  blood. 

"  The  dog  is  a  worshipper  of  man,"  says  Dr. 
Lauder  Lindsay,  "  and  is,  or  may  be,  made  in  the 
image  of  the  being  he  worships."  That  refers 
merely  to  the  animal's  intellectual  and  moral 
nature;  or,  in  other  words,  it  is  the  fashionable 
"  inverted  or  biological  anthropomorphism  "  of  the 
day,  of  which  we  shall  all  probably  be  heartily 
ashamed  by  and  by;  just  now  we  are  concerned 
with  a  more  important  matter,  to  wit,  the  dog's 
nose.  Its  character  may  be  seen  even  in  the  most 
artificial  breeds,  that  is  to  say,  in  those  which  have 
most  widely  diverged  from  the  parent-form  and  are 
entirely  dependent  on  us,  such  as  pugs  and  toy- 
terriers.  The  pampered  lap-dog  in  the  midst  of 
his  comforts  has  one  great  thorn  in  his  side,  one 
perpetual  misery  to  endure,  in  the  perfumes  which 
please  his  mistress.  He  too  is  a  little  Venetian  in 
his  way,  but  his  way  is  not  hers.  The  camphor- 
wood  chest  in  her  room  is  an  offence  to  him,  the 
case  of  glass-stoppered  scents  an  abomination.  All 
fragrant  flowers  are  as  asafoetida  to  his  exquisite 
nostrils,  and  his  face  is  turned  aside  in  very  ill- 
concealed  disgust  from  the  sandal-wood  box  or  fan. 


284    THE  BOOK  OF  A  NATURALIST 

It  is  warm  and  soft  on  her  lap,  but  an  incurable 
grief  to  be  so  near  her  pocket  -  handkerchief, 
saturated  with  nasty  white-rose  or  lavender.  If 
she  must  perfume  herself  with  flowery  essences  he 
would  prefer  an  essential  oil  expressed  from  the 
gorgeous  Rafflesia  Arnoldi  of  the  Bornean  forest, 
or  even  from  the  humble  carrion-flower  which 
blossoms  nearer  home. 

The  moral  of  all  this  is,  that  while  the  dog  has 
become  far  too  useful  for  us  to  think  of  parting 
with  it — useful  in  a  thousand  ways,  and  likely  to 
be  useful  in  a  thousand  more,  as  new  breeds  arise 
with  modified  forms  and  with  new  unimagined  pro-, 
pensities — it  would  be  a  blessed  thing,  both  for 
man  and  dog,  to  draw  the  line  at  useful  animals, 
to  put  and  keep  them  in  their  place,  which  is  not 
in  the  house,  and  value  them  at  their  proper  worth, 
as  we  do  our  horses,  pigs,  cows,  goats,  sheep,  and 
rabbits. 

But  there  is  a  place  in  the  human  heart,  the 
female  heart  especially,  which  would  be  vacant 
without  an  animal  to  love  and  fondle,  a  desire  to 
have  some  furred  creature  for  a  friend  —  not  a 
feathered  creature,  albeit  feathered  pets  are  common 
enough,  because,  owing  to  the  bird's  organisation, 
to  be  handled  is  often  painful  and  injurious  to  it, 
and  in  any  case  it  deranges  the  feathers;  and  this 
love  is  unsatisfied  and  feels  itself  defrauded  of  its 
due  unless  it  can  be  expressed  in  the  legitimate 
mammalian  way,  which  is  to  have  contact  with 
its   object,   to   touch  with   the   fingers   and   caress. 


THE  GREAT  DOG-SUPERSTITION  285 

Fortunately  such  a  feeling  or  instinct  can  be  amply 
gratified  without  the  dog;  there  are  scores,  per- 
haps hundreds,  of  species  incomparably  before  this 
animal  in  all  estimable  quahties,  which  can  be 
touched  with  hand  and  lips  without  defilement. 
Only  a  few  need  be  mentioned  in  this  place. 

One  of  the  first  animals  worthy  of  so  high  a 
distinction,  which  would  occur  to  many  travelled 
men,  is  the  marmoset:  a  fairy  monkey  in  its 
smallness  and  extreme  beauty,  clothed  in  long  soft 
hair  with  a  lustre  as  of  spun  silk;  in  manners 
pleasantly  tricksy,  but  not  scatter-brained  and 
wildly  capricious  like  its  larger  irresponsible  rela- 
tions, which  is  an  advantage.  No  visitor  to  the 
Brazils  can  have  failed  to  be  charmed  with  these 
small  animals,  which  are  frequently  kept  as  pets  by 
ladies,  and  among  pets  they  are  surpassed  by  none 
in  attachment  to  their  mistress. 

A  nobler  animal,  capable  of  endearing  itself  to 
man  as  well  as  woman,  is  the  lemur,  of  which  there 
are  several  very  beautiful  species.  Strong,  agile, 
swift  and  graceful  in  action  as  the  monkey,  to 
which  it  is  related,  but  with  an  even,  placid  dis- 
position; monkey-like  in  form,  but  without  the 
monkey's  angularities  and  that  appearance  of 
spareness  which  reminds  one  of  a  naked,  half- 
starved  Hindoo,  he  has  a  better  -  proportioned 
figure  for  beauty,  and  his  dark,  richly  coloured 
coat  of  woolly  fur  gives  a  pleasing  roundness  to  his 
form.  Moreover,  he  has  not  got  the  monkey's 
pathetic    old    man's    withered    countenance,    but    a 


286    THE  BOOK  OF  A  NATURALIST 

sharp,  somewhat  vulpine  face,  black  as  ebony,  a 
suitable  setting  for  his  chief  glory — the  luminous 
eyes,  of  every  shining  yellow  colour  seen  in  gold, 
topaz,  and  cat's-eye.  "  Night  wood-ghost,"  the 
natives  name  it  on  account  of  its  brilliant  eyes 
which  shine  by  night,  and  its  motions  in  the  trees, 
swift  and  noiseless  as  the  flight  of  an  owl.  He  is 
of  ancient  lineage,  one  of  Nature's  aristocrats;  a 
child  of  the  savage  forest,  as  you  can  see  in  the 
flashing  hostile  orbs,  and  in  the  combined  ease  and 
power  of  its  motions;  yet  withal  of  a  sweet  and 
placable  temper. 

Even  among  the  small  -  brained  rodents  we 
should  not  look  in  vain  for  favourites;  and  fore- 
most in  attractiveness  are  perhaps  the  squirrels, 
inhabiting  all  climates.  Blithe-hearted  as  birds 
and  as  volatile  in  disposition,  almost  aerial  in 
their  habits,  and  in  some  tropical,  richly  coloured 
forms  resembling  cuckoos  and  other  long-tailed, 
graceful  avians,  as  they  run  leaping  from  branch 
to  branch  among  the  trees;  what  animation  and 
marvellous  swiftness  of  motion  they  display,  what 
an  endless  variety  of  pretty  whimsical  attitudes 
and  gestures!  "  All  the  motions  of  a  squirrel  imply 
spectators  as  much  as  those  of  a  dancing-girl,"  says 
Thoreau.  They  are  easily  tamed,  coming  at  call 
to  be  fed  from  the  hand;  how  strange  it  seems  that 
they  are  not  domestic,  and  found  at  every  house  in 
town  and  country  where  there  are  trees!  Their 
unfailing  spirits  and  fantastic  performances  would 
have  a  wholesome  effect  on  our  too  sombre  minds, 


THE  GREAT  DOG-SUPERSTITION  287 

and  in  cities  like  London  would  bring  us  a  thought 
of  the  alert  life  and  eternal  gladness  of  Nature. 

For  those  who  would  prefer  a  more  terrestrial 
rodent,  yet  one  more  daintily  fashioned  than  the 
rough-cast  rabbit  and  guinea-pig,  there  are  others. 
For  a  large  animal  the  beautiful  Patagonian 
dohchotis,  like  no  other  mammalian  in  its  form, 
double  the  size  of  the  hare,  and  a  docile  pet  when 
tamed;  and  for  a  small  one  the  charming  lagidium 
or  Andean  vizcacha,  with  rabbit-like  ears,  long  tail, 
arched  like  a  squirrel's,  the  fur  blue-grey  in  colour 
above,  and  beneath  golden  yellow.  And  the 
chinchilla,  white  and  pale  grey,  with  round  leaf- 
like ears,  and  soft  dove's  eyes — a  rare  and  deli- 
cate creature.  There  is  in  this  small  mountain 
troglodyte  something  poetic,  tender,  flower-like — 
a  mammalian  edelweiss.  Poor  little  hunted  chin- 
chilla, did  the  Incas  of  old  love  you  more  than  we 
do  now,  who  love  you  only  dead?  For  you  were 
also  of  the  great  mountains,  where  Viracocha  sat 
on  his  throne  of  snow,  and  the  coming  sun-god 
first  touched  your  stony  dwelhng-places  with  rose 
and  amber  flame;  and  perhaps  they  regarded  you 
as  an  animal  sacred  to  the  Immortals.  If  so,  then 
you  have  indeed  lost  your  friends,  for  we  have  no 
such  fancies,  and  spare  not. 

It  is  a  great  descent,  in  more  senses  than  one, 
to  the  prairie  marmot — from  the  mountain  to  the 
plain,  and  from  the  beautiful  to  the  grotesque; 
yet  this  dweller  on  the  flat  earth,  gross  in  form 
and  drab  in  colour,  is  a  great  pleasure-giver.     He 


288    THE  BOOK  OF  A  NATURALIST 

tickles  the  sense  of  the  ludicrous,  and  it  is  good  to 
laugh.  His  staring  eyes,  spasmodic  gestures,  and 
barking  exclamations  are  almost  painful,  they  are 
so  genuine;  for  what  an  unearthly-looking  monster 
one  must  seem  to  him!  He  is  a  gnome  who 
has  somehow  stumbled  out  of  his  subterranean 
abode,  and,  like  the  young  mole  in  Lessing's 
fable,  is  overwhelmed  with  astonishment  at  every- 
thing he  sees  in  this  upper  world.  Then  there  is 
the  agouti,  with  pointed  head,  beautifully  arched 
back,  and  legs  slender,  proportionally,  as  the 
gazelle's;  its  resemblance  in  form  to  the  small 
musk  deer  has  been  remarked — a  rodent  moulded 
in  the  great  Artist-Mother's  happiest  mood.  The 
colour  of  its  coat,  reheved  only  by  its  pink  ears 
and  a  broad  shining  black  stripe  on  the  back,  is 
red  Venetian  gold,  the  hue  which  the  old  Italian 
masters  gave  to  the  tresses  of  their  angelic  women. 
A  mild-tempered  animal,  which  may  be  taken  from 
its  native  woods  and  made  tame  in  a  few  days. 
Many  of  the  smaller  rodents  might  also  be  men- 
tioned, such  as  the  quaint,  bird-like  jerboa,  and 
the  variegated  loucheres;  and  so  on  down  even 
to  the  minute  harvest-mouse.  Forms  and  sizes  to 
suit  all  tastes;  for  why  should  we  all  have  alike? 
Let  fashion  in  pets  go  out  with  the  canines. 

To  go  back  to  the  other  extreme,  from  low  to 
high,  there  are  the  wild  cats  inhabiting  all  desert 
places  on  the  globe.  Tigers  and  leopards  made 
small;  clouded,  or  with  a  clear  golden  ground- 
colour, pale  or  red  gold  or  grey,  and  black-striped, 


THE  GREAT  DOG-SUPERSTITION  289 

barred  zebra-like,  or  spotted,  or  with  the  colours 
disposed  in  strange  patterns,  beautifully  harmonious. 
As  in  the  lemurs,  and  surpassing  them,  here  are 
brilliant  luminous  eyes  and  great  strength  of 
sinew;  but  these  are  not  of  peace:  the  serpent- 
like silence  of  the  movements  and  fateful  stillness 
of  the  lithe  form,  and  the  round  watchful  orbs  that 
seem  like  the  two  fiery  gems  set  in  a  carved  figure 
of  rich  stone — these  betray  the  deadly  purpose. 
Yet  their  hearts  may  also  be  conquered  with 
kindness.  The  domestic  cat  is  a  proof  of  it;  she 
is  found  in  most  houses,  and  whether  we  make  a 
pet  of  her  or  not,  long  familiarity  has  given  her  a 
place  in  our  affections.  But  when  we  go  from  home 
and  visit  regions  infinitely  richer  in  life  than  our 
own,  it  surprises  and  offends  us  to  meet  with  the 
same  cat  still;  for  it  looks  as  if  man  had  failed,  in 
the  midst  of  so  much  variety,  to  find  anything 
better  or  equally  good.  Nature  abhors  monotony; 
why  should  we  force  it  on  her  to  our  own  dis- 
advantage ? 

Here  then  we  have  a  few  mammalian  forms 
gathered  at  random  from  several  widely  separated 
families,  each  as  it  were  the  final  and  highest  effort 
of  Nature  in  one  particular  direction — "  the  bright 
consummate  flower  "  in  a  group,  the  other  members 
of  which  seem  by  comparison  coarse  and  unfinished. 
We  boast  to  be  lovers  of  the  beautiful,  and  it  is 
here  in  its  highest  form.  Birds  may  be  said  to 
have  a  greater  beauty,  but  it  is  different  in  kind; 
and  they  are  winged  and  far  from  us.     They  are 


290     THE  BOOK  OF  A  NATURALIST 

of  the  sky  and  their  forms  are  aerial;  and  their 
aerial  nature  is  not  in  touch  with  ours.  For  the 
mammalians  we,  who  are  also  mammals  and  bound 
to  earth,  have  a  greater  sympathy,  and  their 
beauty  has  for  us  a  more  enduring  charm.  If  it 
is  out  of  our  sight  and  far  removed  from  most  of 
us,  and  growing  farther  year  by  year,  we  have 
only  ourselves  to  blame.  For  how  rich  are  the 
mountains  and  forests  and  desert  places  of  the 
earth,  where  we  sometimes  go  to  slay  Nature's 
untamed  beautiful  children,  assisted  in  our  task  by 
that  servant  and  friend  that  is  so  worthy  of  us! 
And  on  the  other  hand,  how  poor  are  our  houses 
and  villages  and  cities!  The  dog  is  there,  inherited 
from  barbarous  progenitors,  who  tamed  him  not 
to  be  a  pet  or  friend,  but  to  assist  them  in  their 
quest  for  flesh,  and  for  other  purposes;  to  be  a 
scavenger,  as  he  still  is  in  Eastern  countries,  or, 
as  in  the  case  of  the  ancient  Hyrcanians,  to  devour 
the  corpses  of  their  dead.  He  is  there,  but  his 
title  is  bad;  why  should  we  suffer  him?  We  may 
wash  him  daily  with  many  waters,  but  the  jackal 
taint  remains.  That  which  Nature  has  made 
unclean  let  it  be  unclean  still,  for  we  cannot  make 
it  different.  Her  lustral  water  which  purifies  for 
ever  is  a  secret  to  our  chemistry.  Or  if  not  alto- 
gether a  secret,  if,  as  some  imagine,  the  ingredients 
may  be  dimly  guessed,  they  are  too  slow  for  us  in 
their  working.  Man's  years  are  limited  and  his 
purposes  change.  Nature  has  all  time  for  her 
processes ;    "  the   eternal   years   of   God   are   hers." 


THE  GREAT  DOG-SUPERSTITION  291 

Moreover,  there  is  nothing  we  can  desire  and  not 
find  in  her  garden,  which  has  infinite  variety.  Why- 
should  we  cherish  a  carrion-flower  and  wear  it  in 
our  bosoms  while  carelessly  trampling  on  so  many 
bright  and  beautiful  blooms?  It  is  a  pity  to 
trample  on  them,  since  the  effect  of  so  destructive 
a  habit  is  to  make  them  rare;  and  "rarity,"  as 
certain  of  our  great  naturalists  have  told  us, 
"  is  the  precursor  to  extinction."  And  perhaps 
by  and  by,  blaming  ourselves  for  the  past,  we 
shall  be  diligently  seeking  everywhere  for  them, 
anxious  to  find  and  to  bring  them  into  our  houses, 
where,  after  long  companionship  with  the  dog,  they 
will  serve  to  sweeten  our  imaginations  and  be  a 
joy  for  ever. 

Note. — I  had  pronounced  the  foregoing  old  magazine 
article  unusable,  partly  because  of  the  manner  of  it,  its  care- 
fulness, and  partly  because  it  was  somewhat  polemical  and 
touched  on  questions  which  are  not  natural  history,  pure  and 
simple.  Now  at  the  last  moment  I  have  resolved  to  put  it  in 
— just  for  fun. 

It  appeared  anonymously  ages  ago  in  Macmillani's  Maga- 
zine, then  edited  by  Mowbray  Morris,  who  wrote  to  me  that 
my  article  had  given  him  a  painful  shock,  that  it  would  hurt 
and  disgust  many  readers  of  the  Magazine,  and,  finally,  that 
all  I  and  others  like  me  could  say  in  derogation  of  the  dog 
would  have  no  effect  on  those  who  loved  and  esteemed  that 
friend  of  man  at  its  proper  worth. 

"All  right,"  I  replied.  "Send  me  back  the  MS.  Of 
course  you  mustn't  let  anything  appear  in  your  magazine  to 
hurt  the  feelings  of  these  dear  people." 

No,  he  wouldn't,  he  said.  He  had  accepted  the  article  and 
would  print  it.     And  in  due  time  print  it  he  did. 

Just  then  a  lady  named  Frances  Power  Cobbe,  whom  I 
greatly  esteemed  and  admired  for  her  courage  in  combating 


292    THE  BOOK  OF  A  NATURALIST 

one  of  the  most  horrible  forms  of  cruelty  practised  on  animals, 
had  a  book  in  the  press  entitled  "  The  Friend  of  Man  and  his 
Friends,  the  Poets."  Reading  my  unsigned  paper  in  the 
Magazine,  she  picked  up  her  pen  in  a  noble  rage  to  add  some 
words  to  her  Introduction,  in  which  she  hurled  at  me  certain 
sayings  of  Schopenhauer  describing  man  as  a  very  contempti- 
ble creature  when  compared  with  the  dog,  and  also  saying  that 
the  writer  of  the  article  was  "  worse  than  a  vivisectionist." 

This  struck  me  as  a  bit  thick,  seeing  that  a  vivisectionist 
had  always  been  to  her  the  most  damnable  being  in  the  uni- 
verse. One  or  two  of  my  friends,  who  knew  I  had  written  the 
article,  then  remonstrated  with  the  lady  for  using  such  ex- 
pressions of  one  who,  though  tactless  and  somewhat  brutal, 
was  also  a  lover  of  all  the  creatures,  and  didn't  like  to  hear 
so  much  praise  of  the  dog  at  the  expense  of  the  other  animals. 
The  result  was  that  she  smoothed  her  ruffled  plumes  and  sent 
her  regrets  and  a  promise  to  excise  the  obnoxious  passage  in 
her  preface  in  the  next  edition. 

Of  course  it  doesn't  matter  two  straws  whether  she  ever 
had  the  opportunity  of  doing  so  or  not :  the  best  part  of  the 
story  is  still  to  come — the  funny  part,  and  a  wise  word  which, 
though  laughingly  spoken,  may  yet  do  good. 

The  lady's  book  in  the  meantime  had  fallen  by  chance  into 
the  hands  of  Andrew  Lang,  and  as  it  was  just  the  sort  of 
thing  to  delight  him,  he  made  it  the  subject  of  one  of  his  most 
charming  amusing  leaders  in  the  Daily  News  of  that  time.  In 
this  article,  after  the  usual  pleasant  word  for  the  book  and  its 
author,  he  deals  with  the  subject  of  the  dog  and  man's  feeling 
for  it  in  ancient  and  modern  times,  and  of  the  great  length  to 
which  it  has  been  carried  recently,  and  concludes  with  a  pas- 
sage which  I  must  quote  in  full,  as  I  don't  think  this  article 
ever  reappeared  among  his  Lost  Leaders,  and  it  is  worth  pre- 
serving for  the  sake  of  its  Andrew  Langishness,  as  well  as  of 
its  moral.  After  quoting  some  of  the  most  notable  sayings  in 
praise  of  the  dog,  he  concludes : 

"  There  is  perhaps  some  slight  danger  of  reaction  against  all 
this,  and  Miss  Cobbe  seems  to  have  anticipated  it  in  a  sharp 
attack  on  a  writer  hostile  to  dogs.  This  writer,  as  though 
in  his  turn  anticipating  the  coming  worship  of  the  dog,  has 
expressed  himself  with  considerable  force  against  the  '  great 
dog  superstition,'  and  has  gone  so  far  as  to  characterise 


THE  GREAT  DOG-SUPERSTITION  293 

the  dog's  affection,  devotion,  and  courage  in  defence  of  his 
master  as  a  '  very  small  and  very  low  thing.'  It  is  easy  to 
imagine  how  Miss  Cobbe  characterises  him.  Warned  by  this 
example,  we  shall  take  care  not  to  say  that,  nowadays  perhaps, 
the  dog  is  too  much  with  us  in  literature.  It  may  be  thought 
— we  do  not  say  it  is  our  opinion — that  the  dog's  worst  peril 
awaits  him  at  the  moment  of  his  highest  fortune,  when  he  has 
become  the  pet  and  protege  of  women.  Women  may  spoil 
him,  so  the  cynic  might  say — if  a  cynic  could  be  expected 
to  say  anything  unkind  on  such  a  subject — as  they  spoil  all 
their  favourites.  Under  their  enervating  patronage  he  may 
gradually  lose  some  of  his  most  cherished  qualities,  until  he 
whines  with  the  poet,  '  What  is  it,  in  this  world  of  ours,  that 
makes  it  fatal  to  be  loved  .f* '  For  fatal  it  would  be  if  the  dog 
were  gradually  evolved  into  a  thing  of  tricks,  a  suppliant 
for  sugar  at  afternoon  tea,  a  pert  assailant  only  of 
the  people  who  never  mean  to  rob  the  house,  or  a 
being  deaf  to  the  cry  of  '  rats  '  but  fiercely  active  in 
the  pursuit  of  a  worsted  ball — a  fine-coated  dandy  with 
his  initials  embroidered  on  his  back.  His  affection,  his 
fidelity,  his  reasoning  power  are  very  good  things,  but 
it  is  not  all  a  blessing  for  him  that  they  are  finding  their 
way  into  literature.  For  literature  never  can  take  a  thing 
simply  for  what  it  is  worth.  The  plain  dealing  dog  must  be 
distinctly  bored  by  the  ever-growing  obligation  to  live  up  to 
the  anecdotes  of  him  in  the  philosophic  journals.  These  anec- 
dotes are  not  told  for  his  sake ;  they  are  told  to  save  the  self- 
respect  of  people  who  want  an  idol,  and  who  are  distorting  him 
into  a  figure  of  pure  convention  for  their  domestic  altars.  He 
is  now  expected  to  discriminate  between  relations  and  mere 
friends  of  the  house ;  to  wag  his  tail  at '  God  save  the  Queen  ' ; 
to  count  up  to  five  in  chips  of  firewood,  and  to  seven  in  mutton 
bones  ;  to  howl  for  all  deaths  in  the  family  above  the  degree  of 
second  cousin ;  to  post  letters,  and  refuse  them  when  they  have 
been  insufficiently  stamped ;  and  last  and  most  intolerable,  to 
show  a  tender  solicitude  when  the  tabby  is  out  of  sorts.  He 
will  do  these  things  when  they  are  required  of  him,  for  he  is 
the  most  good-natured  and  obliging  fellow  in  the  world,  but  it 
ought  never  to  be  forgotten  that  he  hates  to  do  them,  and 
that  all  he  really  cares  for  is  his  daily  dinner,  his  run,  his  rat, 
and  his  occasional  caress.     He  is  not  in  the  least  concerned 


^294     THE  BOOK  OF  A  NATURALIST 

about  the  friendship  of  the  poets,  and  the  attempt  to  live  up 
to  their  interest  in  him  is  playing  havoc  with  his  sincerity,  and 
making  him  only  less  of  a  nevrose  than  the  quite  unnecessary 
cat.  His  earlier  difficulty  with  the  Egyptians  is  a  warning 
that  ought  to  serve  for  all  time.  If  he  ate  up  Apis  it  was  but 
as  a  rough  and  ready  way  of  inviting  the  worshippers  of  Apis 
to  leave  him  alone." 


XXV 

MY  FRIEND  THE  PIG 

Is  there  a  man  among  us  who  on  running  through 
a  list  of  his  friends  is  unable  to  say  that  there  is 
one  among  them  who  is  a  perfect  pig?  I  think 
not;  and  if  any  reader  says  that  he  has  no  such 
an  one  for  the  simple  reason  that  he  would  not  and 
could  not  make  a  friend  of  a  perfect  pig,  I  shall 
maintain  that  he  is  mistaken,  that  if  he  goes  over 
the  list  a  second  time  and  a  little  more  carefully, 
he  will  find  in  it  not  only  a  pig,  but  a  sheep,  a  cow, 
a  fox,  a  cat,  a  stoat,  and  even  a  perfect  toad. 

But  all  this  is  a  question  I  am  not  concerned 
with,  seeing  that  the  pig  I  wish  to  write  about  is 
a  real  one — a  four-footed  beast  with  parted  hoofs. 
I  have  a  friendly  feeling  towards  pigs  generally, 
and  consider  them  the  most  intelligent  of  beasts,  not 
excepting  the  elephant  and  the  anthropoid  ape — 
the  dog  is  not  to  be  mentioned  in  this  connection. 
I  also  like  his  disposition  and  attitude  towards 
all  other  creatures,  especially  man.  He  is  not 
suspicious,  or  shrinkingly  submissive,  like  horses, 
cattle,  and  sheep;  nor  an  impudent  devil-may-care 
like    the    goat;    nor    hostile    like    the    goose;    nor 

295 


296     THE  BOOK  OF  A  NATURALIST 

condescending  like  the  cat;  nor  a  flattering  parasite 
like  the  dog.  He  views  us  from  a  totally  different, 
a  sort  of  democratic,  standpoint  as  fellow-citizens 
and  brothers,  and  takes  it  for  granted,  or  grunted, 
that  we  understand  his  language,  and  without 
servility  or  insolence  he  has  a  natural,  pleasant, 
camerados-all  or  hail-fellow-well-met  air  with  us. 

It  may  come  as  a  shock  to  some  of  my  readers 
when  I  add  that  I  like  him,  too,  in  the  form  of 
rashers  on  the  breakfast-table;  and  this  I  say 
with  a  purpose  on  account  of  much  wild  and  idle 
talk  one  hears  on  this  question  even  from  one's 
dearest  friends — the  insincere  horror  expressed  and 
denunciation  of  the  revolting  custom  of  eating  our 
fellow-mortals.  The  other  day  a  lady  of  my 
acquaintance  told  me  that  she  went  to  call  on 
some  people  who  lived  a  good  distance  from  her 
house,  and  was  obliged  to  stay  to  luncheon.  This 
consisted  mainly  of  roast  pork,  and  as  if  that  was 
not  enough,  her  host,  when  helping  her,  actually 
asked  if  she  was  fond  of  a  dreadful  thing  called  the 
crackling! 

It  is  a  common  pose;  but  it  is  also  something 
more,  since  we  find  it  mostly  in  persons  who  are 
frequently  in  bad  health  and  are  restricted  to  a  low 
diet;  naturally  at  such  times  vegetarianism  appeals 
to  them.  As  their  health  improves  they  think  less 
of  their  fellow-mortals,  A  little  chicken  broth  is 
found  uplifting;  then  follows  the  inevitable  sole, 
then  calves'  brains,  then  a  sweetbread,  then  a 
partridge,  and  so  on,  progressively,  until  they  are 


MY  FRIEND  THE  PIG  297 

once  more  able  to  enjoy  their  salmon  or  turbot, 
veal  and  lamb  cutlets,  fat  capons,  turkeys  and 
geese,  sirloins  of  beef,  and.  finally,  roast  pig. 
That's  the  limit;  we  have  outgrown  cannibalism, 
and  are  not  keen  about  haggis,  though  it  is  still 
eaten  by  the  wild  tribes  inhabiting  the  northern 
portion  of  our  island.  All  this  should  serve  to 
teach  vegetarians  not  to  be  in  a  hurry.  Thoreau's 
"  handful  of  rice  "  is  not  sufficient  for  us,  and  not 
good  enough  yet.  It  will  take  long  years  and 
centuries  of  years  before  the  wolf  with  blood  on 
his  iron  jaws  can  be  changed  into  the  white  innocent 
lamb  that  nourishes  itself  on  grass. 

Let  us  now  return  to  my  friend  the  pig.  He 
inhabited  a  stye  at  the  far  end  of  the  back  garden 
of  a  cottage  or  small  farmhouse  in  a  lonely  little 
village  in  the  Wiltshire  downs  where  I  was  stajnng. 
Close  to  the  stye  was  a  gate  opening  into  a  long 
green  field,  shut  in  by  high  hedges,  where  two  or 
three  horses  and  four  or  five  cows  were  usually 
grazing.  These  beasts,  not  knowing  my  sentiments, 
looked  askance  at  me  and  moved  away  when  I  first 
began  to  visit  them,  but  when  they  made  the 
discovery  that  I  generally  had  apples  and  lumps 
of  sugar  in  mj^  coat  pockets  they  all  at  once  became 
excessively  friendly  and  followed  me  about,  and 
would  put  their  heads  in  my  way  to  be  scratched, 
and  licked  my  hands  with  their  rough  tongues  to 
show  that  they  liked  me.  Every  time  I  visited  the 
cows  and  horses  I  had  to  pause  beside  the  pig-pen 
to  open  the  gate  into  the  field;  and  invariably  the 


298     THE  BOOK  OF  A  NATURALIST 

pig  would  get  up  and  coming  towards  me  salute  me 
with  a  friendly  grunt.  And  I  would  pretend  not  to 
hear  or  see,  for  it  made  me  sick  to  look  at  his  pen 
in  which  he  stood  belly-deep  in  the  fetid  mire,  and 
it  made  me  ashamed  to  think  that  so  intelligent 
and  good-tempered  an  animal,  so  profitable  to  man, 
should  be  kept  in  such  abominable  conditions.  Oh, 
poor  beast,  excuse  me,  but  I'm  in  a  hurry  and  have 
no  time  to  return  your  greeting  or  even  to  look 
at  you! 

In  this  village,  as  in  most  of  the  villages  in  all 
this  agricultural  and  pastoral  county  of  Wiltshire, 
there  is  a  pig-club,  and  many  of  the  cottagers  keep 
a  pig;  they  think  and  talk  a  great  deal  about  their 
pigs,  and  have  a  grand  pig-day  gathering  and 
dinner,  with  singing  and  even  dancing  to  follow, 
once  a  year.  And  no  wonder  that  this  is  so,  con- 
sidering what  they  get  out  of  the  pig;  yet  in  any 
village  you  will  find  it  kept  in  this  same  unspeak- 
able condition.  It  is  not  from  indolence  nor 
because  they  take  pleasure  in  seeing  their  pig 
unhappy  before  killing  him  or  sending  him  away 
to  be  killed,  but  because  they  cherish  the  belief 
that  the  filthier  the  state  in  which  they  keep  their 
pig  the  better  the  pork  will  be!  I  have  met  even 
large  prosperous  farmers,  many  of  them,  who 
cling  to  this  delusion.  One  can  imagine  a  conversa- 
tion between  one  of  these  Wiltshire  pig-keepers 
and  a  Danish  farmer.  "  Yes,"  the  visitor  would 
say,  "  we  too  had  the  same  notion  at  one  time,  and 
thought  it  right  to  keep  our  pigs  as  you  do;  but 


MY  FRIEND  THE  PIG  299 

that  was  a  long  time  back,  when  English  and 
Danes  were  practically  one  people,  seeing  that 
Canute  was  king  of  both  countries.  We  have  since 
then  adopted  a  different  system;  we  now  believe, 
and  the  results  prove  that  we  are  in  the  right  way, 
that  it  is  best  to  consider  the  animal's  nature  and 
habits  and  wants,  and  to  make  the  artificial  con- 
ditions imposed  on  him  as  little  oppressive  as  may 
be.  "  It  is  true  that  in  a  state  of  nature  the  hog 
loves  to  go  into  pools  and  wallow  in  the  mire,  just 
as  stags,  buffaloes,  and  many  other  beasts  do, 
especially  in  the  dog-days  when  the  flies  are  most 
troublesome.  But  the  swine,  like  the  stag,  is  a 
forest  animal,  and  does  not  love  filth  for  its  own 
sake,  nor  to  be  left  in  a  miry  pen,  and  though  not 
as  fastidious  as  a  cat  about  his  coat,  he  is  naturally 
as  clean  as  any  other  forest  creature." 

Here  I  may  add  that  in  scores  of  cases  when  I 
have  asked  a  cottager  why  he  didn't  keep  a  pig, 
his  answer  has  been  that  he  would  gladly  do  so,  but 
for  the  sanitary  inspectors,  who  would  soon  order 
him  to  get  rid  of  it,  or  remove  it  to  a  distance  on 
account  of  the  offensive  smell.  It  is  probable  that 
if  it  could  be  got  out  of  the  cottager's  mind  that 
there  must  need  be  an  offensive  smell,  the  number 
of  pigs  fattened  in  the  villages  would  be  trebled. 

I  hope  now  after  all  these  digressions  I  shall  be 
able  to  go  on  with  the  history  of  my  friend  the 
pig.  One  morning  as  I  passed  the  pen  he  grunted 
— spoke,  I  may  say — in  such  a  pleasant  friendly 
way  that  I  had  to  stop  and  return  his  greeting; 


300    THE  BOOK  OF  A  NATURALIST 

then,  taking  an  apple  from  my  pocket,  I  placed  it 
in  his  trough.  He  turned  it  over  with  his  snout, 
then  looked  up  and  said  something  like  "  Thank- 
you "  in  a  series  of  gentle  grunts.  Then  he  bit 
off  and  ate  a  small  piece,  then  another  small  bite, 
and  eventually  taking  what  was  left  in  his  mouth 
he  finished  eating  it.  After  that  he  always  expected 
me  to  stay  a  minute  and  speak  to  him  when  I  went 
to  the  field;  I  knew  it  from  his  way  of  greeting 
me,  and  on  such  occasions  I  gave  him  an  apple. 
But  he  never  ate  it  greedily:  he  appeared  more 
inclined  to  talk  than  to  eat,  until  by  degrees  I 
came  to  understand  what  he  was  saying.  What 
he  said  was  that  he  appreciated  my  kind  intentions 
in  giving  him  apples.  But,  he  went  on,  to  tell  the 
real  truth,  it  is  not  a  fruit  I  am  particularly  fond 
of.  I  am  familiar  with  its  taste  as  they  sometimes 
give  me  apples,  usually  the  small  unripe  or  bad 
ones  that  fall  from  the  trees.  However,  I  don't 
actually  dislike  them.  I  get  skim  milk  and  am 
rather  fond  of  it;  then  a  bucket  of  mash,  which  is 
good  enough  for  hunger;  but  what  I  enjoy  most  is 
a  cabbage,  only  I  don't  get  one  very  often  now.  I 
sometimes  think  that  if  they  would  let  me  out  of 
this  muddy  pen  to  ramble  like  the  sheep  and  other 
beasts  in  the  field  or  on  the  downs  I  should  be  able 
to  pick  up  a  number  of  morsels  which  would  taste 
better  than  anything  they  give  me.  Apart  from 
the  subject  of  food  I  hope  you  won't  mind  my 
telling  you  that  I'm  rather  fond  of  being  scratched 
on  the  back. 


MY  FRIEND  THE  PIG  301 

't^  So  I  scratched  him  vigorously  with  my  stick, 
and  made  him  wriggle  his  body  and  wink  and 
blink  and  smile  delightedly  all  over  his  face,  v  Then 
I  said  to  myself:  "  Now  what  the  juice  can  I  do 
more  to  please  him?"  For  though  under  sentence 
of  death,  he  had  done  no  wrong,  but  was  a  good, 
honest-hearted  fellow-mortal,  so  that  I  felt  bound 
to  do  something  to  make  the  miry  remnant  of  his 
existence  a  little  less  miserable. 

I  think  it  was  the  word  juice  I  had  just  used — 
for  that  was  how  I  pronounced  it  to  make  it  less 
like  a  swear-word — that  gave  me  an  inspiration. 
In  the  garden,  a  few  yards  back  from  the  pen, 
there  was  a  large  clump  of  old  elder-trees,  now 
overloaded  with  ripening  fruit — the  biggest  clusters 
I  had  ever  seen.  Going  to  the  trees  I  selected  and 
cut  the  finest  bunch  I  could  find,  as  big  round  as 
my  cap,  and  weighing  over  a  pound.  This  I  de- 
posited in  his  trough  and  invited  him  to  try  it. 
He  sniffed  at  it  a  little  doubtfully,  and  looked  at 
me  and  made  a  remark  or  two,  then  nibbled  at  the 
edge  of  the  cluster,  taking  a  few  berries  into  his 
mouth,  and  holding  them  some  time  before  he 
ventured  to  crush  them.  At  length  he  did  venture, 
then  looked  at  me  again  and  made  more  remarks, 
"  Queer  fruit  this !  Never  tasted  anything  quite 
like  it  before,  but  I  really  can't  say  yet  whether  I 
like  it  or  not." 

Then  he  took  another  bite,  then  more  bites, 
looking  up  at  me  and  saying  something  between 
the  bites,  till,  httle  by  little,  he  had  consumed  the 


302     THE  BOOK  OF  A  T^ATURALIST 

whole  bunch;  then  turning  round,  he  went  back 
to  his  bed  with  a  little  grunt  to  say  that  I  was  now 
at  liberty  to  go  on  to  the  cows  and  horses. 

However,  on  the  following  morning  he  hailed  my 
approach  in  such  a  lively  manner,  with  such  a  note 
of  expectancy  in  his  voice,  that  I  concluded  he  had 
been  thinking  a  great  deal  about  elder-berries,  and 
was  anxious  to  have  another  go  at  them.  Accord- 
ingly I  cut  him  another  bunch,  which  he  quickly 
consumed,  making  little  exclamations  the  while — 
"  Thank  you,  thank  you,  very  good — very  good 
indeed!"  It  was  a  new  sensation  in  his  life,  and 
made  him  very  happy,  and  was  almost  as  good  as 
a  day  of  liberty  in  the  fields  and  meadows  and  on 
the  open  green  downs. 

From  that  time  I  visited  him  two  or  three  times 
a  day  to  give  him  huge  clusters  of  elder-berries. 
There  were  plenty  for  the  starlings  as  well;  the 
clusters  on  those  trees  would  have  filled  a  cart. 

Then  one  morning  I  heard  an  indignant  scream 
from  the  garden,  and  peeping  out  saw  my  friend,  the 
pig,  bound  hand  and  foot,  being  lifted  by  a  dealer 
into  his  cart  with  the  assistance  of  the  farmer. 

"Good-bye,  old  boy!"  said  I  as  the  cart  drove 
off;  and  I  thought  that  by  and  by,  in  a  month  or 
two,  if  several  persons  discovered  a  peculiar  and 
fascinating  flavour  in  their  morning  rasher,  it 
would  be  due  to  the  elder-berries  I  had  supplied  to 
my  friend  the  pig,  which  had  gladdened  his  heart 
for   a   week    or   two   before   receiving   his    quietus. 


XXVI 

THE  POTATO  AT  HOME  AND  IN 
ENGLAND 

When  I  was  a  small  boy  running  about  wild  on 
the  pampas,  amazingly  interested  in  everything 
and  making  wonderful  discoveries  every  day,  I 
was  attracted  by  a  small  flower  among  the  grasses 
— pale  and  meek-looking,  with  a  yellow  centre, 
petals  faintly  washed  with  purple,  and  a  lovely 
scent.  It  charmed  me  with  its  gentle  beauty  and 
new  fragrance,  and  surprised  me  with  its  resem- 
blance, both  in  flower  and  leaf,  to  the  potato-plant. 
On  showing  a  spray  to  my  parents,  they  told  me 
that  it  was  a  potato-flower.  This  seemed  incredible, 
since  the  potato  was  a  big  plant  with  large  clusters 
of  purplish  flowers,  almost  scentless,  and,  further- 
more, it  was  a  cultivated  plant.  They  explained 
that  all  cultivated  plants  were  originally  wild; 
that  long  cultivation  had  had  the  effect  of  changing 
their  appearance  and  making  them  larger;  that 
was  how  we  had  got  our  wheat,  which  came  from 
a  poor  little  grass  with  a  seed  scarcely  bigger  than 
a  pin's  head.  Even  the  botanists  had  had  great 
difiiculty   in   identifying   it   as   the   original  wheat- 


304     THE  BOOK  OF  A  NATURALIST 

plant.  Also  our  maize  and  huge  pumpkins  and 
water-melons,  and  all  our  vegetables  and  fruit.  I 
then  took  a  table-knife  and  went  to  look  for  a 
plant,  and  when  I  found  one  I  dug  down  to  a  depth 
of  six  inches,  and  there  sure  enough  was  the  tuber, 
attached  to  the  root,  but  quite  small — not  bigger 
than  a  hazel-nut — perfectly  round  with  a  pimply 
skin,  curiously  light-coloured,  almost  pearly.  A 
pretty  little  thing  to  add  to  my  collection  of  curios, 
but  all  the  same  a  potato.    How  strange! 

From  that  time  I  began  to  take  a  new  interest 
in  the  potato,  and  would  listen  eagerly  when  the 
subject  of  potatoes  was  discussed  at  table.  When 
the  potatoes  were  taken  up  about  the  beginning  of 
December,  and  then  the  second  crop  in  autumn — 
April  or  May — my  father  would  tell  the  gardener  to 
pick  out  a  few  of  the  biggest  for  him,  and  these, 
when  washed  and  weighed,  would  be  placed  as 
ornaments  on  the  dining-room  mantelpiece,  in  a 
row  of  half-a-dozen.  They  were  not  pretty  to  look 
at,  but  they  were  astonishingly  big  when  I  put  my 
small  marble  of  a  wild  potato  bj^  the  side  of  them. 
Then  when  some  English  neighbour,  ten  or  twenty 
miles  away,  would  ride  over  to  see  us  and  stay  to 
lunch,  my  father  would  take  up  the  potatoes  one 
by  one  and  hand  them  to  him  and  say:  "What 
do  you  think  of  this  one?  And  of  this  one?" 
Then:  "And  of  this  one?"  This  one  would  be 
the  biggest.  Then  he  would  add:  "What  does 
your  biggest  potato  weigh?"  And  when  the  other 
replied:     "Ten" — or     perhaps     twelve — "ounces," 


THE  POTATO  AT  HOME  305 

my  father  would  laugh  and  say:  "This  one 
weighs  fourteen  ounces  and  a  half;  this  fifteen 
and  three-quarters;  this  one  just  turns  the  balance 
at  sixteen,  and  this  one  seventeen  ounces.  What 
do  you  say  to  that?"  The  other  would  reply  that 
he  couldn't  have  believed  it  if  he  hadn't  seen  and 
handled  the  potato  himself,  and  my  father  would 
be  happy  and  triumphant. 

Not  only  were  the  potatoes  of  that  land  as  large 
as  any  in  the  world,  but  they  were  probably  the 
best  in  the  world  to  eat.  They  were  beautifully 
white  and  mealy,  with  that  crystalline  sparkle  of  the 
properly  cooked  potato  in  them  which  one  rarely 
sees  in  this  country.  Strange  to  say,  our  Spanish 
neighbours,  even  those  who  had  a  garden,  did  not 
grow  or  eat  them;  they  were  confined  to  the 
English  settlers  and  a  few  foreigners  of  other 
nationalities. 

Here  I  will  venture  to  relate  an  incident  which, 
though  trivial,  goes  to  show  how  little  our  native 
neighbours  knew  about  the  potato,  which  was  so 
important  to  us;  and  at  the  same  time  it  will 
serve  to  illustrate  a  trait  common  to  the  native  of 
that  land — the  faculty  of  keeping  his  face. 

A  young  girl  of  about  twelve,  the  child  of  poor 
natives  living  in  a  small  ranch  a  couple  of  miles 
from  us,  was  invited  by  a  little  sister  of  mine  to 
come  and  spend  a  day  with  her,  to  look  at  dolls 
and  other  treasures,  eat  peaches,  and  enjoy  herself 
generally.  We  were  a  big  family,  but  my  sister's 
little  guest,  Juanita,  took  her  place  at  table  as  if 


306    THE  BOOK  OF  A  NATURALIST 

to  the  manner  born.  Lamb  cutlets  with  a  nice 
big  potato  on  the  plate  were  placed  before  her, 
also  a  cup  of  tea,  for  in  those  days  tea  was  drunk 
at  every  meal.  After  a  glance  round  to  see  how 
eating  was  managed  in  these  novel  conditions,  she 
began  on  the  cutlets,  and  presently  my  little  sister, 
anxious  to  guide  her,  called  attention  to  the  un- 
tasted  potato.  She  looked  at  it,  hesitated  a  moment, 
then,  taking  it  up  in  her  fingers,  dropped  it  into 
her  tea-cup!  The  poor  girl  had  never  seen  a  boiled 
potato  before  and  had  never  had  a  cup  of  tea,  and 
had  just  made  a  guess  at  what  she  was  expected 
to  do.  We  youngsters  exploded  with  laughter  and 
our  elders  smiled,  but  the  girl  kept  her  balance — 
not  a  flush,  not  a  change  in  her  countenance. 

"  Oh,  you  must  not  do  that !  "  cried  my  sister. 
"  You  must  eat  the  potato  with  the  cutlet  on  the 
plate,  with  salt  on  it." 

And  Juanita,  turning  towards  her  little  hostess, 
replied  in  a  quiet  but  firm  tone :  "  I  prefer  to  eat 
it  this  way."  And  in  tJiis  way  she  did  eat  it,  first 
mashing  it  up,  stirring  it  about  in  the  tea,  making 
a  sort  of  gruel  of  it,  "  not  too  thick  and  not  too 
thin,"  then  eating  it  with  a  spoon. 

This  singular  presence  of  mind  and  faculty  of 
keeping  their  dignity  under  difficulties  is,  I  imagine, 
an  instinct  of  all  uncivilised  people,  and  is  in  some 
curious  way  related  to  the  instinct  of  self-preserva- 
tion, as  when  they  are  brought  face  to  face  with  a 
great  danger  and  are  perfectly  cool  where  one  would 
expect  them  to  be  in  a  state  of  confusion  and  panic. 


THE  POTATO  AT  HOME  307 

Other  memories  comiected  with  the  potato 
come  back  to  me.  I  had  a  small  brother,  and  one 
day  we  were  discussing  that  most  important  subject 
to  small  boys,  the  things  we  liiied  best  to  eat,  when 
it  occurred  to  us  as  very  strange  that  certain 
articles  of  food  were  only  eaten  in  combination 
with  certain  other  things;  some  with  salt,  and 
others  with  sugar,  and  so  on,  and  we  agreed  to  try 
and  discover  a  new  and  better  way  of  combining 
different  flavours.  We  started  on  our  boiled  eggs 
and  ate  them  with  sugar  or  treacle  and  cinnamon 
instead  of  salt,  and  found  that  it  wasn't  very  nice. 
By  and  by  we  found  that  peaches  cut  up  and  eaten 
with  cream  and  sugar  tasted  delicious.  And  after 
that  we  broke  the  peach-stones  and  made  a  mash 
of  the  kernels  in  a  mortar  and  ate  that  with  cream 
and  sugar,  and  agreed  that  it  was  a  great  success. 
By  and  by  one  of  our  elders  told  us  that  the  peculiar 
flavour  of  the  peach-stone  pip  which  delighted  us 
and  was  so  good  with  cream  and  sugar  was  due 
to  the  presence  of  prussic  acid,  and  that  if  we  went 
on  with  this  dish  it  would  certainly  kill  us  all  in  a 
little  while.  That  frightened  us,  and  we  started 
experimenting  with  the  harmless  potato.  And  here 
we  met  with  our  greatest  success;  let  all  gourmets 
make  a  note  of  it.  Select  a  good-sized  egg-shaped 
baked  potato  and  place  it  in  a  small  cup  and  treat 
it  as  you  would  an  egg,  cutting  off  the  top.  Then 
with  your  spoon  break  it  up  inside,  pour  in  oil  and 
vinegar,  and  add  pepper  and  salt.  A  delightful 
combination!      We    tried    to    improve    on    it    by 


308     THE  BOOK  OF  A  NATURALIST 

substituting  cream  or  butter  for  the  oil,  but  it  was 
the  flavour  of  olive  oil  and  vinegar  combined  with 
that  of  the  potato  which  made  it  perfect. 

Other  experimenters  may  have  discovered  this 
way  of  eating  a  potato,  but  the  only  approach  to 
it  I  have  found  in  reading  is  contained  in  an  anecdote 
of  Byron,  at  the  time  when  he  was  the  hero  of 
London  society.  He  dined  with  a  friend  who  had 
got  together  a  company  of  the  poet's  ardent  admirers 
to  meet  him.  But  he  was  in  a  diflicult  mood:  he 
declined  soup  and  fish  and  meats  of  all  kinds. 
"What  then  will  you  eat?"  asked  his  host,  getting 
impatient.  "  Oh,  a  potato,"  said  Byron.  And 
when  a  big  potato  was  put  before  him,  he  broke  it 
up,  drenched  it  in  vinegar  and  ate  it,  and  this  was 
his  dinner.  And  dinner  over,  he  took  himself  off, 
to  the  deep  disappointment  of  all  those  who  had 
come  to  gaze  and  listen  and  worship. 

"  How  long,"  said  one  of  them  to  his  host,  "  will 
his  lordship  be  able  to  keep  this  dietary?" 

"  How  long — how  long!  "  said  his  host.  "  As 
long  as  people  think  it  worth  while  to  pay  any 
attention  to  what  he  eats." 

The  story  goes  on  to  say  that,  quitting  his 
friend's  house,  the  poet  walked  to  his  club  in 
Piccadilly  and  told  the  waiter  to  bring  him  an 
underdone  beef -steak.  He  had  perhaps  discovered 
that  a  potato  drenched  in  vinegar  was  good  as  an 
appetiser,  but  he  probably  did  not  know  how 
much  better  it  would  have  been  with  the  addition 
of  oil. 


THE  POTATO  AT  HOME  309 

The  other  most  interesting  memory  of  the 
potato  refers  to  its  chief  enemy,  an  insect  called 
in  the  vernacular  Bicho  moi'o — a  blister-beetle  or 
Cantharides,  its  full  scientific  name  being  Epicauta 
adspersa.  Not  every  year  but  from  time  to  time 
this  pest  would  make  its  appearance  in  numbers, 
and  invariably  just  when  the  potato-plant  was  at 
its  best,  when  the  bloom  was  coming.  On  a  warm, 
still,  bright  day,  when  the  sun  began  to  grow  hot, 
all  at  once  the  whole  air  would  be  filled  with 
myriads  of  the  small  grey  beetles,  about  twice  as 
big  as  a  house-fly,  and  the  buzzing  sound  of  their 
innumerable  wings,  and  the  smell  they  emit.  It 
was  something  like  the  smell  of  the  fire-fly  when 
they  are  in  swarms — a  heavy  musty  and  phos- 
phorous smell  in  the  fire-fly.  The  blister-beetle 
had  the  mustiness  but  not  the  phosphorus  in  its 
odour ;  in  place  of  it  there  was  another  indescribable 
and  disagreeable  element,  which  perhaps  came  from 
that  acrid  or  venomous  principle  in  the  beetle's  pale 
blood.  Though  we  heartily  detested  it,  the  insect 
was  not  without  a  modest  beauty,  its  entire  oblong 
body  being  of  a  pleasing  smoke  grey,  the  wing- 
cases  minutely  dotted  with  black. 

The  sight  and  sound  and  smeH  of  them  would 
call  forth  a  lamentation  from  all  those  who  possessed 
a  potato-patch  and  had  rejoiced  for  weeks  past  in 
their  little  green  plants  with  their  green  embossed 
leaves,  since  now  there  would  be  no  potatoes  for 
the  table  except  very  small  ones,  until  the  autunm 
crop,  which  would  come  along  after  the  grey  blister- 


310     THE  BOOK  OF  A  NATURALIST 

fly  had  vanished  hke  smoke  from  the  earth  after 
leaving  his  evil  seed  in  it. 

The  beetle  feeds  on  the  leaves  of  solanaceous 
plants  and  prefers  the  potato  above  all  others,  so 
that  when  he  comes  in  a  slow-flying  swarm  over 
the  potato-field,  you  see  the  beetles  dropping  in 
thousands  like  a  grey  rain  upon  it,  and  know  that 
before  the  sun  sets  the  whole  of  the  leaves  will  be 
devoured,  the  stalks  being  left  till  the  following  day, 
when  he  will  eat  them  pretty  well  down  to  the 
ground  before  passing  on  to  attack  the  tomatoes. 
Attempts  were  sometimes  made  to  drive  them  off 
by  lighting  smoky  fires  of  half-dried  weeds  round 
the  potato-patch,  but  never  once  did  we  succeed  in 
saving  the  plants. 

As  a  small  boy  I  was  naturally  incapable  of 
entering  into  the  bitter  feelings  of  our  elders  with 
regard  to  the  blister-beetle.  Its  appearance  excited 
me  and  had  the  exhilarating  effect  produced  by  any 
and  every  display  of  life  on  a  great  scale.  At  the 
same  time  I  hated  it,  not  because  it  devoured  the 
potato-plants,  but  for  the  reason  that  I  had  been 
feelingly  persuaded  of  its  power  to  produce  blisters. 
I  was  out  running  about  in  the  sunshine  all  day, 
and  the  air  being  full  of  beetles,  they  were  always 
dropping  upon  me  and  had  to  be  brushed  or  shaken 
off  my  straw  hat,  my  jacket  and  trousers  and  boots 
continually;  but  from  time  to  time  one  would  get 
into  my  shoe  or  slip  down  my  neck  or  creep  up  my 
sleeve  to  get  broken  on  the  skin,  and  in  due  time  a 
pain  would  set  in  just  at  that  spot;  then  on  pulling 


THE  POTATO  AT  HOME  311 

off  my  clothes  a  noble  blister  would  come  to  light, 
a  boss  of  a  pale  amber  colour  and  a  jelly-like 
appearance.  It  was  ornamental  but  painful,  and 
I  would  go  sore  for  a  day  in  that  part. 

Being  a  boy  naturalist,  I  tried  to  discover  the 
secret  of  its  breeding  habits  and  transformations, 
but  failed  utterly.  However,  they  are  known,  and 
are  like  those  of  our  familiar  English  oil-beetle, 
which  stagger  the  mind  that  contemplates  the 
strange  case  of  a  big  beetle  whose  eggs  produce 
mites^mere  animated  specks — endowed  with  an 
extraordinary  activity  and  a  subtle  devilish  know- 
ledge and  cunning  in  building  up  their  own  lives 
out  of  others'  lives.  I  did,  however,  succeed  in 
discovering  one  singular  fact  when  on  this  quest. 
There  is  a  family  of  big  rapacious  flies  common  all 
over  the  world,  the  Asilidae,  and  we  have  several 
species  on  the  pampas,  some  arrayed  in  the  colours 
and  markings  of  bees  and  wasps.  One  is  black  and 
has  bright  red  instead  of  transparent  wings,  and 
appears  to  mimic  our  common  red- winged  wasp. 
I  found  out  that  this  fly  preyed  on  the  blister-beetle, 
and  it  amazed  me  to  see  that  ahiiost  every  one  of 
these  flies  I  could  find  had  one  grasped  in  its  feet 
and  was  diligently  sucking  its  juices  through  its 
long  proboscis.  Yet  those  juices  had  so  potent  a 
poison  in  them  that  a  few  drops  of  them  on  a  man's 
skin  would  raise  a  big  blister! 

Although  the  potato  was  very  much  to  me  in 
those  early  years,  all  my  feelings  regarding  it  having 
originated   in   the   chance   discovery   of   the   meek- 


312     THE  BOOK  OF  A  NATURALIST 

looking  little  flower  with  a  delicate  perfume  among 
the  grasses,  it  grew  to  be  more  when  I  heard  the 
history  of  the  plant  in  cultivation,  and  how  it  had 
been  used  as  food  by  the  Aborigines  both  in  North 
and  South  America  for  long  centuries  before  the 
discovery  of  the  great  green  continent,  and  just  as 
the  yellow-haired  Demeter,  the  Corn  Mother,  and 
her  loved  lost  daughter  Persephone,  the  Corn 
Maiden,  were  worshipped  in  ancient  Greece;  and 
as  the  Rice  Mother  is  worshipped  in  the  East,  in 
many  lands  and  islands;  and  as  the  Maize  Mother 
and  God  were  worshipped  in  all  the  Americas,  by 
nations  savage  and  civilised,  so  did  the  Peruvians, 
who  built  temples  glittering  with  gold  to  their 
chief  god,  the  sun,  and  to  the  sun's  children,  the 
lightning  and  rainbow,  worship  the  Potato  Mother, 
and  pray  to  her  to  look  kindly  on  their  labours 
when  the  seed  was  committed  to  the  ground  and  to 
give  them  good  increase. 

Finally  I  came  to  know  the  history  of  the 
introduction  of  the  potato  into  these  islands  by 
Sir  Walter  Raleigh.  This  action  served  to  make 
him  appear  to  me  the  greatest  of  all  the  shining 
Elizabethans — greatest  in  all  he  thought,  said,  and 
did,  good  or  evil;  as  courtier,  poet,  explorer  and 
buccaneering  adventurer  and  seeker  after  a  golden 
city  in  savage  wildernesses;  as  prisoner  in  the 
Tower  and  author  of  that  most  eloquent  History 
of  the  World;  and,  most  beautiful  of  all,  on  the 
scaffold,  by  the  block,  the  headsman  with  his 
glittering  axe  standing  by  him,  when,  like  a  king 


THE  POTATO  AT  HOME  313 

who  was  to  come  after  him,  he  nothing  said  or  did 
on  that  memorable  scene  to  cast  a  shadow  on  his 
lustre  or  cause  any  lover  then  and  in  the  ages  to 
follow  to  grieve  at  even  a  momentary  weakness  on 
his  part. 

All  this  served  to  make  the  potato  so  important 
to  me  that  when  I  stood  among  the  plants,  growing 
higher  than  my  knees,  in  their  lush-green  embossed 
leaves  and  purple  bloom,  with  a  cloud  of  red  and 
black  and  yellow  and  orange  and  white  butterflies 
hovering  about  them,  it  seemed  to  me  that  America 
had  given  the  two  greatest  food-bearing  plants  to 
the  world — maize  and  potato;  and  which  was  the 
greatest  I  could  not  say,  although  the  great  maize- 
plant  was  certainly  the  most  beautiful  in  its  green 
dress  and  honey-coloured  tresses,  which  the  hot 
sun  would  soon  turn  to  gold  and  by  and  by  to  a 
Venetian  red  of  a  tint  which  one  sees  but  rarely 
in  his  life,  in  the  hair  of  some  woman  of  almost 
supernatural  loveliness. 

The  potato,  then,  as  I  have  said  before,  was 
very  much  to  me.  How  natural,  then,  when  I 
came  to  England  that  I  should  have  been  shocked 
at  the  sight  of  my  first  dish  of  potatoes  on  the 
table. 

"  Is  this  the  way  potatoes  are  cooked  in  this 
country?  "  I  asked  in  astonishment. 

"Why,  yes;  how  else  would  you  have  them 
cooked?"  I  was  asked  in  return;  and  they  too 
were  shocked  when  I  said  the  sight  of  that  sodden 
mass  of  flavourless  starch  and  water  made  me  sick 


314    THE  BOOK  OF  A  NATURALIST 

— that  it  looked  like  the  remains  of  a  boiled  baby- 
in  the  dish,  boiled  to  a  rag.  For  up  to  then  I  had 
seen  potatoes  on  the  table  as  they  appear  when 
boiled  in  their  skins,  peeled,  and  placed  in  a  large 
shallow  dish  with  a  little  butter  on  them;  and  in 
that  way  they  have  the  appearance  of  large  cream- 
coloured  fruit,  and  send  out  an  agreeable  smell  and 
have  a  nice  flavour. 

Here  was  quite  a  different  thing:  this  was  the 
"homely  potato"  of  the  British  journalist  — 
homely  indeed! — stripped  of  its  romance,  spoiled 
in  the  cooking,  and  made  nasty  to  the  eye.  Yet 
this  is  how  it  is  eaten  in  every  house  in  England! 
In  Ireland  and  Scotland  I  found  that  the  potato 
was  usually  cooked  in  the  proper  way  by  people 
of  the  peasant  class.  But  what  do  the  doctors, 
who  make  our  digestions  their  life  study,  say  of  this 
misuse  of  the  potato?  I  don't  know.  All  I  hear 
them  say  about  the  potato  is  that  if  your  digestion 
is  bad  you  must  not  eat  it.  What,  then,  will  they 
say  when  I  tell  them  that  I  have  a  weak  digestion, 
and  whenever  I  have  a  bad  turn  I  cure  myself  by 
dining  for  a  day  or  two  on  nothing  but  potatoes? 
Cooked  in  their  skins,  I  scarcely  need  add,  and 
eaten  with  pepper  and  salt  and  butter.  No  soup 
or  fish  or  meats  or  sweets — notliing  but  potatoes 
for  a  day  or  two  and  I'm  well  again.  Perhaps  they 
will  say  that  I  am  not  a  normal  subject.  But  we 
needn't  bother  about  the  doctors.  Just  now, 
while  writing  this  chapter,  I  asked  my  landlady's 
daughter  in   the  village   in  Cornwall  where   I   am 


THE  POTATO  AT  HOME  315 

staying  if  she  had  ever  tasted  a  potato  boiled  in 
its  jacket.  Yes,  she  had,  once  only,  and  didn't 
like  it  because  it  didn't  taste  like  a  potato — such 
a  funny  flavour! 

That  "  funny "  flavour,  so  unlike  the  taste  of 
the  tuber  boiled  and  water-logged  in  the  homely 
English  way,  is  precisely  the  flavour  which  makes 
it  so  nice  to  eat  and  so  valuable  as  food;  also,  if 
I  may  slip  in  the  personal  pathology  or  idiosyn- 
cratic abnormality,  so  perfect  a  cure  for  indigestion. 
It  is,  in  fact,  the  taste  imparted  by  the  salts  which 
mostly  lie  close  beneath  the  skin,  and  are  con- 
sequently thrown  away  when  the  potato  is  peeled 
before  boiling.  You  cannot  avoid  this  waste  by 
scraping  your  potato,  since  scraping  removes  the 
waterproof  skin,  and,  the  skin  gone,  the  boiling 
water  saturates  the  potato  and  carries  the  salts 
away. 

This  is  a  serious  matter  in  these  days,  when — 
as  some  of  the  newspapers  say — we  are  trying  to 
economise  in  the  matter  of  food,  and  when  the 
potato  is  beginning  to  be  talked  about.  I  suppose 
that  there  are  about  thirty  or  forty  millions  of  us 
who  consume  about  half  a  pound  of  potatoes  every 
day;  and  it  is  not  only  the  case  that  hundreds  of 
tons  of  excellent  food  are  thrown  away  every  day  in 
the  peeling  process,  but  that  the  most  valuable 
elements  in  the  potato  are  wasted.  Perhaps  the 
war  will  teach  us  to  value  the  potato  properly,  as, 
I  believe,  it  is  and  always  has  been  valued  in  most 
countries  outside  these  islands. 


XXVII 

JOHN-GO-TO-BED-AT-NOON 

A  LONGiSH  name  for  a  flower — one  of  its  three 
names!  After  all  it  is  not  saying  very  much;  we 
have  another  better,  more  familiar  one  with  at 
least  six  names,  and  one  of  them  not  composed  of 
six  words  like  our  John's,  but  of  ten! 

When  it  is  spring  I  walk  in  sheltered  places,  by 
wood  and  hedge-side,  to  look  for  and  welcome  the 
first  comers.  Oh  those  first  flowers  so  glad  to  be 
alive  and  out  in  the  sun  and  wind  once  more — 
their  first  early  ineffable  spring  freshness,  remem- 
brancers of  our  lost  childhood,  dead  and  lost  these 
many  dim  and  sorrowful  years,  now  recovered  with 
the  flowers,  and  immortal  once  more  with  spring's 
immortality ! 

Do  we  not  all  experience  a  feeling  something  like 
that  in  an  early  spring  walk?  Even  a  stockbroker 
or  stockjobber  knows  a  prim.rose  when  he  sees  one, 
and  it  is  a  yellow  primrose  to  him  too — and  some- 
thing more.  A  something  to  give  him  a  thrill.  It 
is  as  if  he  met  a  fairy-like  child  in  his  walk  who 
tossed  back  her  shining  tresses  at  his  approach  to 
look  up  into  his  face  with  eyes  full  of  laughter. 
816 


JOHN-GO-TO-B]&D-AT-NOON         317 

To  me  they  are  all  like  that.  Look  at  this 
celandine,  how  it  shines  with  joy  and  starts  up  to 
meet  you  half-way,  throwing  its  arms  out  for  the 
expected  caress  I  And  here  too  is  my  dear  old 
little  white  friend,  the  wild  garlic — a  whole  merry 
crowd  of  them  by  the  stone  hedge;  happy  meeting 
and  happy  greeting!  Let  me  stoop  to  caress  them 
and  inhale  their  warm  breath.  It  is  true  there  are 
those  who  don't  like  it  and  take  their  nice  noses 
away  when  the  flower  would  be  glad  to  kiss  them. 
But  when  a  flower  has  no  fragrance  to  it,  like  the 
hyacinth  and  blue  columbine  of  these  parts,  or  even 
red  valerian — Pretty  Betsy  herself  blushing  bright 
pink  all  over — it  does  not  seem  that  they  love  as 
warmly  as  the  flower  with  a  scented  breath — sweet 
violet  and  sweet  gale  and  vernal  squill  and  cowslip 
and  many  more,  down  to  the  water-mint  by  the 
stream  and  my  loving  little  white  friend  here  by 
the  stone  hedge. 

And  when  the  first  early  blooms  are  gone  with 
March,  April,  and  May,  when  it  is  full  June,  I 
wade  in  the  lush  meadow  (when  the  farmer  is  not 
about)  to  greet  and  talk  to  the  taller  ones,  and 
alas!  to  say  good-bye  to  them  at  the  same  time, 
seeing  that  the  mower  will  soon  come  to  make  hay 
of  them.  One  of  the  old  friends  I  diligently  seek 
at  this  season  is  John,  or  Johnnie,  tall  as  any  there 
— tall  as  the  flaunting  ox-eye  daisies.  Not  that  it 
is  a  particularly  attractive  flower;  I  have  never 
regarded  it  as  pretty,  but  merely  as  one  of  those 
yellow    dandelion  -  shaped    flowers    which    are    so 


318    THE  BOOK  OF  A  NATURALIST 

common  with  us.  And  it  is  indeed  in  appearance  a 
lesser  dandelion  on  a  thin  tall  plant,  the  blooms, 
half-a-dozen  or  so  to  a  plant,  on  long  fine  stems. 
It  interests  me  chiefly  on  account  of  its  singular, 
unflowerlike  behaviour,  which  the  name  describes; 
also  on  account  of  its  other  queer  name  and  the 
meaning  thereof.  I  don't  mean  goat's-beard,  but 
its  third  old  English  name  which  now,  like  many 
another,  has  grown  offensive  to  ears  polite,  and  has 
long  been  banished  from  our  flower  books,  and  even 
the  dictionaries.  One  must  go  back  to  the  old 
writers  to  find  it  in  print:  not  necessarily  so  far 
back  as  Chaucer,  who  is  too  disgusting  for  anything, 
but  to  the  Elizabethan  and  Carolines.  The  banned 
name,  however,  is  still  in  use  in  the  rural  districts. 

What  I  have  written  so  far  was  all  I  could  have 
said  about  this  yellow  flower  until  last  summer; 
and  if  in  time  gone  by  any  one  had  said  to  me  that 
a  day  would  come  when  Johnnie  would  appear  to 
me  as  a  wonder  and  delight,  I  should  have  laughed. 
Yet  the  strange  experience  actually  came  to  me 
last  June. 

At  a  Cornish  village  there  was  a  field  near  the 
cottage  where  I  was  staying,  where  my  host  had 
allowed  his  half-a-dozen  cows  to  graze  during  the 
winter  months:  in  April  he  turned  them  out,  and 
a  month  later,  passing  by  the  field,  it  appeared  to 
me  that  it  would  yield  him  a  heavy  crop  of  grass. 
One  morning  in  June,  looking  at  the  field  from  a 
distance,  it  struck  me  that  the  hay  would  not  be 
of  a  very  good  quality  since  the  entire  area  had  now 


JOHN-GO-TO-BED-AT-NOON         319 

turned  to  bright  yellow  with  some  tall  flower  that 
looked  like  ragwort  among  the  grasses. 

"  What's  happened  to  your  field — what  is  that 
yellow  weed  in  it? "  I  said  to  my  man. 

"  Oh,  that's  only "  then  he  pulled  himself  up, 

thinking  in  time  that  I  might  be  of  the  polite-eared 
tribe.     "  That's  a  yellow  flower,"  he  finished. 

"  Yes,  I  see  it  is,"  said  I.  "  I'll  have  a  look  at 
your  flower  after  lunch." 

But  the  pleasure  of  luncheon,  especially  of  the 
omelettes  my  landlady  made  so  wonderfully  well, 
caused  me  to  forget  all  about  it. 

About  three  o'clock  I  was  out  walking,  half  a 
mile  from  the  house,  when  I  looked  back  from  the 
high  ground  at  the  village  beneath  me,  and  my  eye 
rested  on  the  field  about  which  we  had  talked  that 
mc.ning.  "Now  what  was  it  about  that  field?" 
said  I  to  myself,  trying  to  recover  something  all 
but  forgotten.  Then  I  remembered  that  at  noon 
it  had  appeared  all  a  sheet  of  yellow  colour  and  was 
now  of  a  uniform  deep  rather  dull  green!  It  was 
very  odd,  but  I  had  no  time  to  investigate  until 
the  following  morning  when,  on  visiting  the  field 
about  ten  o'clock,  I  saw  it  in  all  its  glory,  the 
whole  area  resplendent  with  its  multitudinous 
crowded  blooms  of  the  dandelion  orange-yellow, 
the  most  luminous  colour  in  Nature;  and  but  for 
the  wind  that  waved  the  tall  plants  like  a  field  of 
corn,  mingling  the  vivid  flower-tint  with  the  green 
beneath,  the  colour  would  have  been  too  dazzling 
in  that  brilliant  sunshine.     But  it  was  the  sunlight 


320    THE  BOOK  OF  A  NATURALIST 

and  the  motion  imparted  by  the  wind  which  made 
it  so  wonderful.  A  sheet  of  yellow  buttercups  or 
a  field  thickly  grown  with  dandelions  does  not 
produce  this  effect  owing  to  its  want  of  motion. 
The  stiffer  the  flower  on  its  stem  the  less  vivid  in 
appearance  is  its  sentient  life — the  less  does  it 
enjoy  the  air  it  breathes.  These  flowers,  on  tall 
pliant  stems,  danced  in  the  wind  with  a  gladness 
greater  than  that  of  Wordsworth's  daffodils.  It 
was  only  when  the  first  shock  of  wonder  and  delight 
was  over,  that,  looking  closely  at  a  flower,  I  made 
the  discovery  that  it  was  the  goat's-beard,  the 
homely  John-go-to-bed-at-noon,  and  the  hardly 
respectable — I  dare  not  say  what! 

After  that  I  visited  the  field  three  or  four  times 
a  day  and  found  that  the  flower  begins  to  open 
some  time  after  sunrise  and  comes  into  its  fullest 
bloom  about  ten  o'clock;  that  at  noon  it  begins 
to  close,  but  for  an  hour  or  two  the  change  is 
imperceptible,  after  which  one  notices  that  the 
field  is  losing  its  lustre,  the  dimness  gradually 
growing  until  by  three  o'clock  the  field  is  all  dark 
green  again.  John's  in  bed,  tucked  up,  and  in  a 
deep  sleep  which  will  last  quite  seventeen  hours; 
then  he  won't  wake  with  a  start,  but  slowly, 
slowly,  yawning  and  rubbing  his  yellow  eyes  and 
taking  at  least  two  hours  to  get  out  of  bed. 

I  do  not  know  what  has  been  said  by  the  authori- 
ties on  the  physiology  of  plants  on  this  habit  of  the 
flower,  but  it  strikes  the  ordinary  person  as  some- 
thing abnormal  or  unnatural.    We  all  know  many 


JOHN-GO-TO-BED-AT-NOON         321 

flowers  (the  familiar  daisy  is  one)  which  close  in 
the  evening,  folding  themselves  up  or  covering 
their  round  discs  with  their  petals  as  a  child  covers 
her  face  with  her  fingers,  and  this  seems  right  and 
natural  and  consistent  with  Nature's  plan.  We  are 
not  yet  acquainted  with  all  the  secrets  of  a  flower, 
but  we  at  least  know  that  its  life  and  growth  are 
from  the  sun  and  suppose  that  when  the  light  and 
heat  are  withdrawn  the  work  of  elaboration  going 
or  within  it  is  suspended,  that  the  flower  is  asleep 
and  at  rest  until  the  vitalising  influence  returns. 
Why  then  the  extraordinary  waste  of  daylight  by 
this  one  flower,  when  all  others  require  all  the 
light  and  heat  they  can  get?  Has  Johnnie's 
"  unconscious  intelhgence "  found  out  an  easier 
way — a  method  of  work  by  means  of  which  he  is 
able  to  accomplish  in  his  day  of  three  or  four  hours 
as  much  as  others  can  do  in  their  twelve  to  sixteen 
hours'  day?  Johnnie  then  should  be  the  right 
flower  for  the  Socialist  to  wear  on  his  day,  which 
would  have  to  be  in  June. 

I  had  asked  my  man  how  he  could  have  let  his 
field  get  into  such  a  condition,  since  the  tough  wiry 
stems  of  the  goat's-beard  could  not  be  very  good 
for  his  cows  as  winter  feed,  and  all  he  could  say 
was  that  it  "  had  come  like  that  of  itself " ;  that 
in  the  two  previous  years  there  had  been  a  slight 
sprinkling  of  the  yellow  flower — he  didn't  like  to 
name  it.  But  how  it  had  come  about  was  now 
plain  to  see,  for  before  he  started  mowing  balls  of 
down   could   be   seen   all   over   the   field,   shedding 


322    THE  BOOK  OF  A  NATURALIST 

myriads  of  seeds  which  would  produce  another 
undesirable  but  exceedingly  beautiful  crop  the 
following  summer.  The  lazy  stay-in-bed-for- 
seventeen-hours  goat's-beard  was  actually  ahead  of 
the  other  flowers  in  ripening  its  seed! 

That  shining  yellow  field,  which  continues  to 
shine  in  memory,  just  now  serves  to  remind  me  of 
other  plants  and  flowers  that,  commonly  seen,  have 
no  special  attraction,  but  which  occasionally  find 
their  day  of  fullest  perfection  and  triumph  on  some 
abandoned  and  waste  ground — a  field  perhaps  once, 
long  years  ago,  under  cultivation. 

I  have  described  some  cases  of  this  kind  in 
Nature,  in  Downland,  where  the  turf  was  ruined  for 
ever  by  the  plough  on  the  high  South  Downs  a 
century  ago,  then  left  for  Nature  to  work  her  will  on 
the  desolated  spot.  But  we  are  most  familiar  with 
the  sight  of  her  beautifying  processes  in  the  remains 
of  mediaeval  buildings  scattered  about  the  land,  in 
old  castles  and  abbeys  and  towers,  draped  with  ivy, 
the  rough  stone  walls  flushed  with  green  and  grey 
and  yellow  colours  of  moss  and  lichen  and  rainbow- 
tinted  algae,  decorated  too  with  yellow  wallflower, 
ivy  -  leafed  toad  -  flax,  and  red  valerian.  Thus 
Nature  glorifies  our  "  builders  of  ruins." 

And  going  back  to  remoter  ages,  I  have  in  my 
rambles  come  upon  two  wonderfully  beautiful 
flower  effects,  one  in  a  Roman  road,  unused  probably 
since  Roman  times;  the  other  more  ancient  still 
on   a   British   earthwork.      I   found   the   first   one 


JOHN-GO-TO-BED-AT-NOON         323 

spring  day  when  cycling  over  the  high  down  country 
near  Dorchester.  I  caught  sight  of  what  looked  to 
me  like  a  broad  band  of  snow  lying  across  the  green 
hills.  Coming  to  it  I  found  the  old  Roman  road, 
which  is  there  very  distinct  and  has  a  closer  turf  and 
a  brighter  green  than  the  downs  it  lies  across,  so 
thickly  overgrown  with  daisies  that  the  crowded 
flowers  were  actually  touching  and  had  obliterated 
the  green  colour  of  the  ground  under  them.  It  w^as 
a  wonderful  sight,  for  all  these  millions  of  small 
blossoms  occupied  the  road  only,  not  a  daisy  being 
seen  on  the  green  down  on  either  side,  and  the 
loveliness  was  of  so  rare  a  quality,  so  rich  yet  so 
delicate,  a  beauty  almost  supernatural,  that  I  could 
not  bear  to  walk  or  ride  on  it.  It  was  like  a  road 
leading  to  some  unearthly  brighter  place — some 
paradise  of  flowers. 

In  the  other  case  the  site  was  an  earthwork  in 
Wiltshire,  built  probably  thousands  of  years  ago, 
and  the  flower  selected  to  decorate  it  was  the 
yellow  bird's-foot  trefoil. 

There  are  in  that  part  of  Wiltshire  many  such 
remains,  grim  dykes,  with  or  without  walls  at  the 
side,  and  walls  with  a  f  oss  on  one  or  in  some  instances 
on  both  sides.  This  one  was  a  very  deep  ditch  at 
the  side  of  a  wall  ten  to  fifteen  feet  high,  with  a 
flat  top  eight  to  ten  feet  broad.  It  winds  over  a 
large  down  then  dips  down  to  a  broad  level  valley, 
and  rising  over  the  hill  opposite  disappears  at  last  in 
the  arable  land  on  that  side.  Standing  on  the  high 
down  or  on  the  top  of  the  wall  it  has  the  shape  and 


324    THE  BOOK  OF  A  NATURALIST 

appearance  of  a  vast  green  serpent  with  its  mile-long 
coil  lying  in  a  series  of  curves  across  the  earth.  As 
in  the  case  of  the  old  Roman  green  roads,  the  turf 
of  the  earthwork  is  a  different  and  brighter  shade 
of  green  than  that  of  the  valley. 

At  this  place  I  once  met  and  had  a  long  talk 
about  the  far  past  with  a  man  of  a  singularly  lively 
mind  for  a  Wiltshire  peasant.  He  told  me  that 
on  numberless  occasions  since  his  boyhood  he  had 
stood  looking  at  this  great  earthwork  in  wonder, 
asking  himself  who  and  what  the  people  were  that 
made  it.  "  I  have  often,"  he  said,  "  had  the  idea 
that  they  must  have  been  mad;  for  allowing  that 
they  had  a  use  for  such  a  wall  and  ditch  why  did 
they  make  it  go  winding  all  over  the  place  instead 
of  carrying  it  in  a  straight  line  and  saving  more  than 
half  the  labour  it  cost  to  build  it?"  I  could  only 
suggest  in  reply  that  it  was  no  doubt  a  very  ancient 
earthwork,  dating  back  to  the  time  when  metal  tools 
were  unknown  in  England  and  that  the  chalk  had 
to  be  scooped  up  with  sharp  flints;  that  when  they 
came  to  a  very  hard  bit  they  had  to  make  a  bend 
to  get  round  it.  I  also  assured  him  that  they  could 
not  have  been  mad  as  no  such  disease  was  known 
to  the  old  ancient  people. 

Now  in  spring  the  flat  top  of  this  earthwork  in 
all  that  space  where  it  lies  across  the  level  valley, 
the  broad  level  top  of  the  bank  is  grown  over  with 
the  bird's-foot  trefoil,  the  yellow  flowers  as  crowded 
as  the  daisies  on  the  old  Roman  road,  with  not  one 
flower   to  be  seen  growing  on   the  green  sloping 


JOHN-GO-TO-BED-AT-NOON         325 

sides.     A  green  serpent  still  in  appearance  but  its 
whole  back  now  a  shining  yellow. 

When  I  dream  of  South  Wiltshire  in  spring, 
when  the  wild  flowers  are  in  bloom,  it  is  to  look 
again  on  that  wonderful  green  and  yellow  serpent. 


XXVIII 

THE  CHEQUERED  DAFFODIL 
AND  THE  GLORY  OF  WILD  FLOWERS 

Never  a  season  passes,  never  a  month  nor  a  week, 
nor  even  a  day,  when  I'm  wandering  in  quest  of 
the  sights  and  sounds  that  draw  the  field  naturahst, 
but  I  stumble  on  something  notable  never  pre- 
viously seen,  or  never  seen  in  the  same  charming 
aspect.  And  the  fact  that  it  is  stumbled  on  when 
not  looked  for,  that  it  comes  as  a  complete  surprise, 
greatly  enhances  the  charm.  It  may  be  a  bird  or 
mammal,  or  some  rare  or  lustrous  insect,  but  it  is 
in  plant  life  where  the  happy  discoveries  are  most 
frequent,  even  to  one  who  is  not  a  "  painfull  and 
industrious  searcher  of  plantes "  and  knows  little 
of  their  science.  For  not  only  are  the  species  so 
numerous  as  to  be  practically  innumerable  to  one 
who  desires  to  see  all  things  for  himself,  but  many 
of  the  most  attractive  kinds  are  either  rare  or 
exceedingly  local  in  their  distribution.  I  will  give 
a  few  instances. 

What  a  delightful  experience  it  was  one  cold 
sunny  day  in  April  when  I  sought  shelter  from  the 
furious  wind  at  a  huge  rocky  headland  at  Zennor 


THE  CHEQUERED  DAFFODIL     327 

on  the  Cornish  coast,  and  found  the  turf  at  the 
foot  of  the  rocks  jewelled  with  the  first  vernal 
squills!  And  what  a  thrill  of  joy  in  Scotland  one 
June,  when  coming  to  a  narrow  green  valley 
between  high  rocks  and  woods  I  had  my  first 
sight  of  the  exquisite  grass  of  Parnassus  flowering 
in  profusion! 

One  day,  cychng  from  Salisbury  to  Winter- 
bourne  Gunner,  I  found  a  pretty  red  flower  new  to 
me  growing  by  the  roadside  in  great  abundance; 
for  a  distance  of  three  or  four  hundred  yards  the 
hedge-side  was  thickly  sprinkled  with  its  lovely 
little  stars.  It  was  a  geranium,  prettier  than  any 
red  geranium  known  to  me,  the  delicate  colour 
resembling  that  of  the  red  horse-chestnut.  It  was 
the  Geranium  pyrenaicum,  native  of  central  and 
eastern  Europe,  and  by  some  botanists  supposed  to 
be  indigenous  in  this  country.  Probably  the  colour 
varies,  as  some  of  the  books  describe  it  as  purple  or 
pale  purple. 

My  delight  was  greater  when  I  first  came  upon 
the  large  blue  geranium  growing  among  the  South 
Wiltshire  downs.  The  large  loose  plant  with  large 
flowers  and  deep -cut  leaves  reminded  me  of  the 
geranium  -  leafed  scented  mallow,  one  of  my 
favourites,  and  these  two  plants  became  associated 
in  my  mind,  but  the  mallow  is  rosy  pink  and  the 
geranium  a  pure  divine  (or  human)  blue. 

One  of  the  rarest,  and  to  my  mind  one  of  the 
most  beautiful,  flowers  in  England  is  the  bastard 
balm;  I  have  never  found  it  but  once,  and  it  was 


328    THE  BOOK  OF  A  NATURALIST 

the  way  in  which  it  came  before  me  that  has  given 
it  such  a  lustre  in  my  mind.  I  was  motoring  with 
friends  from  Land's  End  to  London,  when  in  coming 
through  the  hilly  country  near  Tavistock  I  caught 
sight  of  a  flower  unknown  to  me  on  a  tall  stalk 
among  the  thick  herbage  at  the  roadside,  and 
shouted  to  the  chauffeur  to  stop.  He  did  so  after 
rushing  on  a  farther  hundred  yards  or  so,  but  very 
reluctantly,  as  he  was  angry  with  the  hills  and 
anxious  to  get  to  Exeter.  I  walked  back  and 
secured  my  strange  lovely  flower,  and  for  the  rest 
of  the  day  it  was  a  delight  to  us,  and  I'm  pretty 
sure  that  its  image  exists  still  and  shines  in  the 
memory  of  all  who  were  with  me  in  the  car  that 
day — the  chauffeur  excepted. 

I  am  bringing  too  many  flowers  into  this  chapter, 
since  only  one  is  named  in  the  title,  but  once  I 
begin  to  think  of  them  they  keep  me,  and  a  dream 
of  fair  flowers  is  as  much  to  me  as  that  Dream  of 
Fair  Women  is  to  the  Tennysons  and  Swinburnes 
who  write  poetry.  Or  perhaps  they  are  more  like 
fair  little  girls  than  grown  women,  the  beautiful 
little  dear  ones  I  loved  and  remember — Alice  and 
Doris,  and  pensive  Monica,  "laughing  Allegra  and 
Edith  with  golden  hair,"  and  dozens  more.  But 
I  must  really  break  away  from  this  crowd  to 
concentrate  on  my  chequered  daffodil,  only  I  must 
first  be  allowed  to  mention  just  one  more — the 
blue  columbine,  the  wild  flower,  always  true  blue 
and  supposed  to  be  indigenous.  I  don't  believe 
it;  I  imagine  for  various  reasons  that  it  is  a  garden 


THE  CHEQUERED  DAFFODIL     329 

escape  dating  back  to  the  Roman  occupation,  which 
gives  it  a  better  title  by  some  eighteen  centuries  to 
be  described  as  British  than  dozens  of  our  wild 
flowers.  The  charming  sanfoin,  common  as  the 
gipsy  rose  in  our  fields,  the  wild  musk  that  flourishes 
by  a  thousand  streams  from  Land's  End  to  the 
Western  Islands,  the  winter  hehotrope  that  spreads 
its  green  mantle  over  so  much  of  England,  are  by 
comparison  aliens  that  emigrated  but  yesterday 
to  our  shores. 

It  was  in  Wiltshire  again  that  I  found  my  first 
columbines,  in  a  vast  thicket  of  furze,  may,  and 
blackthorn  covering  about  twenty  acres  of  ground. 
The  plants  were  tall,  the  thin  wiry  stems  being  two 
or  three  feet  long,  and  produced  few  leaves,  but 
flowers  as  large  as  those  of  the  garden  plant.  An 
old  keeper  who  had  charge  of  the  ground  told  me 
he  had  known  the  flower  from  his  boyhood,  and 
that  formerly  he  could  fill  a  barrow  with  "collar- 
binds,"  as  he  called  them,  any  day.  It  was  a  rare 
pleasure  to  see  that  columbine  in  its  own  home — 
the  big  blue  quaint  flower  that  looked  at  you  from 
its  shelter  of  rough  furze  and  thorn  bushes;  and 
for  the  first  time  in  my  life  I  admired  it,  since  in 
the  garden,  where  as  a  rule  its  peculiar  beauty  is 
dimmed  by  other  garden  blooms,  it  has  an  inhar- 
monious setting.  But  I  must  say  of  the  colour 
that  albeit  a  true  floral  blue  it  is  a  blue  of  the 
earth,  the  material  world  we  inhabit,  not  the  divine 
(or  human)  blue  of  the  blue  geranium  nor  the  more 
ethereal  blue  of  the  vernal  squill  on  the  sea-cliffs. 


330     THE  BOOK  OF  A  NATURALIST 

and  of  the  wild  hyacinth  seen  in  sheets  of  colour 
under  the  woodland  trees.  These  are  the  floral  blues 
that  bring  heaven  down  to  us. 

It  is  not  strange  perhaps  that  this  flower  should 
be  known  by  bird  names,  but  it  is  odd  that  the 
names  should  be  of  birds  so  wide  apart  in  our 
minds  as  eagle  and  dove.  Aquilegia,  because  the 
inverted  tubes  at  the  base  of  the  flower  are  like 
the  curved  claws  of  an  eagle;  and  columbine  from 
its  dove-like  appearance,  each  blossom  forming  a 
cluster  of  fine  dark  blue  fairy  fan-tails,  with  beaks 
that  meet  at  the  stem,  wings  open,  and  tails  out- 
spread. 

This  great  find  made  me  think  that  I  had  come 
into  a  colmubine  country,  and  I  set  out  to  look  for 
it,  but  failed  to  find  or  even  hear  of  it  anywhere  in 
that  district  except  at  one  spot  on  the  border  of 
Wilts  and  Dorset.  This  was  a  tiny  rustic  village 
hidden  among  high  downs,  one  of  the  smallest, 
loveliest,  most  out-of-the-world  villages  in  England. 
In  the  small  ancient  church  I  found  a  mural  tablet 
to  the  memory  of  the  poet  Browning's  grandfather, 
whose  humble  life  had  been  spent  in  that  neigh- 
bourhood. So  rare  was  it  for  a  stranger  to  appear 
in  this  lost  village  that  half  of  the  population,  all 
the  forty  schoolchildren  included,  were  eager  to 
talk  to  me  all  the  time  I  spent  in  it,  and  they  all 
knew  all  about  the  columbine.  It  had  been 
abundant  half  a  mile  from  the  village  by  the  hedges 
and  among  the  furze  bushes,  and  every  summer 
the  children  were  accustomed  to  go  out  and  gather 


THE  CHEQUERED  DAFFODIL      331 

the  flowers,  and  they  were  seen  in  every  cottage; 
and  as  a  result  of  this  misuse  the  flower  had  been 
extirpated. 

They  wished  it  would  come  again! 

If  comparatively  few  persons  have  seen  the  blue 
native  columbine,  just  as  few  perhaps  have  found, 
growing  wild,  that  more  enchanting  flower,  the 
snake's-head  or  fritillary.  Guinea-flower  and  bastard 
narcissus  and  turkey-caps  are  some  of  its  old 
English  names,  the  last  still  in  common  use; 
but  the  name  by  which  all  educated  persons  now 
call  it  is  also  very  old.  Two  centuries  and  a  half 
ago  a  writer  on  plants  spoke  of  it  as  "  a  certaine 
strange  flower  which  is  called  by  some  Fritillaria." 
Another  very  old  name,  which  I  like  best,  is 
chequered  daffodil.  As  a  garden  flower  we  know 
it,  and  we  also  know  the  wild  flower  bought  in 
shops  or  sent  as  a  gift  from  friends  at  a  distance. 
In  most  instances  the  flowers  I  have  seen  in  houses 
were  from  the  Christchurch  Meadows  at  Oxford. 

I  know  what  white,  what  purple  fritillaries 

The  grassy  harvest  of  the  river-fields 

Above  by   Ensham,  down   by   Sandford,   yields, 

says  Matthew  Arnold  in  his  beautiful  monody- 
the  wonder  is  that  it  should  yield  so  many.  But 
to  see  the  flower  in  its  native  river-fields  is  the 
main  thing;  in  a  vase  on  a  table  in  a  dim  room 
it  is  no  better  than  a  blushing  briar-rose  or  any 
other  lovely  wild  bloom  removed  from  its  proper 
atmosphere  and  surroundings. 

It   was   but   a   twelvemonth    before   first   finding 


332     THE  BOOK  OF  A  NATURALIST 

wild  columbine  that  I  had  the  happiness  of  seeing 
this  better  flower  in  its  green  home,  a  spot  where 
it  is,  perhaps,  more  abundant  than  anywhere  in 
England;  but  the  spot  I  will  not  name,  nor  even 
the  county;  the  locality  is  not  given  in  the  books 
I  have  consulted,  yet  it  is,  alas!  too  well  known 
to  many  whose  only  pleasure  in  wild  flowers  is  to 
gather  them  greedily  to  see  them  die  indoors.  For 
we  live  indoors  and  reck  not  that  Nature  is  de- 
flowered, so  that  we  return  with  hands  or  arms  full 
of  some  new  brightness  to  add  to  the  decorations  of 
our  interiors. 

Coming  one  May  Day  to  a  small  rustic  village, 
I  passed  the  schoolhouse  just  when  the  children 
were  trooping  back  in  the  afternoon,  and  noticed 
that  many  of  them  were  carrying  bunches  of 
fritillaries.  They  told  me  where  they  had  got 
them,  in  a  meadow  by  the  neighbouring  river; 
then  one  little  girl  stepped  forward  and  asked  me 
very  prettily  to  accept  her  bunch.  I  took  it  and 
gave  her  two  or  three  pence,  whereupon  the  other 
children,  disregarding  the  imperious  calls  of  their 
schoolmistress,  who  was  standing  outside,  all 
flocked  round  and  eagerly  pressed  their  nosegays 
on  me.  But  T  had  as  many  as  I  wanted;  my 
desire  was  to  see  the  flower  growing,  so  I  went  my 
way  and  returned  another  day  to  look  for  the 
favoured  spot.  I  found  it  a  mile  from  the  village, 
at  a  place  where  the  lovely  little  river  divides  into 
three  or  four,  with  long  strips  of  greenest  meadow- 
land    between    the    currents,    with    ancient    pollard 


THE  CHEQUERED  DAFFODIL      333 

willows  growing  on  the  banks.  These  were  the 
biggest  pollards  I  have  ever  seen,  and  were  like 
huge  rudely  shaped  pillars  wJth  brushwood  and  ivy 
for  capitals,  some  still  upright,  others  leaning  over 
the  water,  and  many  of  them  quite  hollow  with 
great  gaps  where  the  rind  had  perished.  I  saw  no 
chequered  daffodils,  but  it  was  a  beautiful  scene,  a 
green,  peaceful  place,  with  but  one  blot  on  it — a  dull, 
dark  brown  patch  where  ground  had  been  recently 
ploughed  in  the  middle  of  the  largest  and  fairest 
meadow  in  sight.  A  sudden  storm  of  rain  drove 
me  to  seek  shelter  at  one  of  the  old  crumbling 
pollards,  where,  by  cramming  myself  into  the 
hollow  trunk,  I  managed  to  keep  dry.  In  half-an- 
hour  it  was  over  and  the  sky  blue  again;  then, 
coming  out,  that  brown  piece  of  ground  in  the 
distance  looked  darker  than  ever  amidst  the  wet 
sun-lit  verdure,  and  I  marvelled  at  the  folly  of 
ploughing  up  a  green  meadow  in  spring;  for  what 
better  or  more  profitable  crop  than  grass  could  be 
grown  in  such  a  spot? 

Presently,  as  I  walked  on  and  got  nearer,  the 
unsightly  brown  changed  to  dark  purple;  then 
I  discovered  that  it  was  no  ploughed  ground  before 
me,  but  a  vast  patch  of  flowers  —  of  fritillaries 
growing  so  close  that  they  darkened  the  earth  over 
an  area  of  about  three  acres  I  It  was  a  marvellous 
sight,  and  a  pleasure  indescribable  to  walk  about 
among  them;  to  stand  still  in  that  garden  with 
its  flowers,  thick  as  spikes  in  a  ripe  wheat-field, 
on  a  level  with  my  knees;  to  see   them  in  such 


334     THE  BOOK  OF  A  NATURALIST 

surroundings  under  the  wide  sky  in  that  lucid 
atmosphere  after  the  rain,  the  pendulous  cups  still 
sparkling  with  the  wet  and  trembling  in  the  lightest 
wind.  It  would  have  been  a  joy  to  find  a  single 
blossom;  here,  to  my  surprise,  they  were  in 
thousands,  and  in  tens  and  in  hundreds  of  thousands, 
an  island  of  purple  on  the  green  earth,  or  rather 
purple  flecked  with  white,  since  to  every  hundred 
or  more  dark-spotted  flowers  there  was  one  of  an 
ivory  whiteness  and  unspotted. 

But  it  is  not  this  profusion  of  blossoms,  which 
may  be  a  rare  occurrence — it  is  the  individual 
flower  which  has  so  singular  an  attractiveness.  It 
is,  I  have  said,  a  better  flower  than  the  blue  colum- 
bine; in  a  way  this  tulip  is  better  than  any  British 
flower.  A  tulip  without  the  stiffness  and  appearance 
of  solidity  which  makes  the  garden  kinds  look  as 
if  they  had  been  carved  out  of  wood  and  painted, 
but  pendulous,  like  the  harebell,  on  a  tall  slender 
stem,  among  the  tall  fine  -  leafed  grasses,  and 
trembling  like  the  grasses  at  every  breath;  in 
colour  unlike  any  other  tulip  or  any  flower,  a  pink 
that  is  like  a  delicate,  luminous  flesh-tint,  minutely 
chequered  with  dark  maroon  purple. 

Our  older  writers  on  plants  waxed  eloquent  in 
describing  their  "  fritillaria "  or  "  Ginny-flower," 
and  even  the  driest  of  modern  botanists  writes  that 
it  is  a  flower  which,  once  seen,  cannot  be  forgotten. 
That  is  because  of  its  unlikeness  to  all  others — its 
strangeness.  In  the  arrangement  of  its  colours  it 
is  imique,  and  furthermore,  it  is  the  darkest  flower 


THE  CHEQUERED  DAFFODIL      335 

we  have.  This  effect  is  due  to  the  smalhiess  of  the 
tessellated  squares,  since  at  a  distance  of  a  few  feet 
the  dark  violet  maroon  kills  or  absorbs  the  bright 
delicate  pink  colour,  and  makes  the  entire  blossom 
appear  uniformly  dark. 

The  flower  which,  combining  strangeness  with 
beauty,  comes  nearest  to  the  chequered  daffodil  is 
the  henbane,  with  an  exceedingly  dark  purple 
centre  and  petals  a  pale  clouded  amber  yellow 
delicately  veined  with  purple  brown.  But  in  the 
henbane  the  dark  and  pale  hues  are  seen  contrasted. 
In  flowers  like  these,  but  chiefly  in  the  chequered 
daffodil,  we  see  that  the  quality  of  strangeness, 
which  is  not  in  itself  an  element  of  beauty,  has 
yet  the  effect  of  intensifying  the  beauty  it  is 
associated  with.  Thus,  if  we  consider  other  admired 
species — briar  -  rose,  pink  convolvulus,  rock  -  rose, 
sea-poppy,  yellow  flag,  bugloss,  blue  geranium, 
water  forget-me-not,  flowering  rush,  and  grass  of 
Parnassus,  for  example — and  many  more  might  be 
named — we  see  that  in  beauty,  pure  and  simple, 
these  equal  and  exceed  the  fritillary;  yet  this 
impresses  us  more  than  the  others,  and  surprises 
us  into  thinking  it  more  beautiful  because  its 
beauty  strikes  us  more  sharply.  It  is  not  sufficient 
to  say  that  the  sharper  impression  is  due  merely  to 
the  unusual  appearance.  I  rather  incline  to  believe 
that  the  source  of  the  vivid  interest  excited  is  that 
faculty  of  the  mind  supposed  to  be  obsolete,  but 
which  still  faintly  lives  in  all  of  us,  though  we  may 
be  unconscious  of  it — a  faculty  which  sees  a  hidden 


336     THE  BOOK  OF  A  NATURALIST 

meaning  or  spirit  in  all  strange  appearances  in  the 
natural  world.  It  is  the  "sense  of  mystery,"  and 
is  with  us  in  sight  of  a  magnificent  and  strange 
sunset,  and  of  any  unusual  atmospheric  strange- 
ness, down  to  the  smallest  objects  that  engage  our 
attention — an  insect,  a  flower,  even  our  chequered 
daffodil  of  the  river-fields. 


XXIX 

CONCERNING  LAWNS,  WITH   INCI- 
DENTAL OBSERVATIONS  ON 
EARTHWORMS 

I  AM  not  a  lover  of  lawns;  on  the  contrary,  I 
regard  them,  next  to  gardens,  as  the  least  interesting 
adjuncts  of  the  country-house.  Grass,  albeit  the 
commonest,  is  yet  one  of  the  most  beautiful  things 
in  Nature  when  allowed  to  grow  as  Nature  intended, 
or  when  not  too  carefully  trimmed  and  brushed. 
Rather  would  I  see  daisies  in  their  thousands, 
ground  ivy,  hawkweed,  and  even  the  hated  plantain 
with  tall  stems,  and  dandelions  with  splendid 
flowers  and  fairy  down,  than  the  too-well-tended 
lawn  grass.  This  may  be  regarded  as  the  mental 
attitude  of  the  wild  man  from  the  woods,  but 
something  may  be  said  for  it.  Sir  Walter  Raleigh 
explained,  centuries  ago,  the  reason  of  our  desire 
for  and  pleasure  in  trim  gardens,  lawns,  parks,  and 
neatly  cut  hedges  of  box  and  privet  and  holly: 
those  surroundings  of  the  house  were  invented  as 
a  refuge  from  the  harsh,  brambly  outside  wilderness, 
the  stinging  nettles,  scratching  thorns,  sharp  hurt- 
ful stones  and  hidden  pits — from  all  the  roughnesses 
and  general  horriblenesses  of  an  incult  Nature. 

337 


338     THE  BOOK  OF  A  NATURALIST 

But  that's  all  a  feeling  of  long  ago,  it  may  be 
answered;  it  has  gone  out  now,  and  we  have  come 
back  to  Nature — the  dear  old  beautiful  mother! 
Have  we  indeed?  Lawns  have  net  gone  out;  on 
the  contrary,  it  appears  to  me  that  the  idea  of 
the  lawn,  like  the  idea  of  clothes,  has  entered  into 
our  souls  and  manifests  itself  more  and  more  in  all 
our  surroundings,  our  dwellings,  our  persons,  our 
habits.  Sir  Almroth  Wright  cried  out  a  little  while 
ago  against  our  habit  of  scrubbing  our  bodies  every 
day  and  rubbing  them  dry  with  rough  towels  to 
polish  and  make  them  shine  like  our  glass,  china, 
and  plated  table-ware.  When  Nathaniel  Haw- 
thorne came  to  the  Old  Home  from  an  outlandish 
United  States  of  America  where  this  idea  of  the 
lawn  had  not  yet  penetrated  so  deeply,  he  spent 
some  time  at  a  great  country  -  house  where  he 
stayed  in  running  about  the  lawns  and  park  in 
search  of  a  nettle,  or  weed,  or  wilding  of  some  kind 
to  rest  his  eyes  on.  The  novel  smoothness  and 
artificiality  of  everything  made  him  mad.  And 
if  Sir  Walter  Raleigh  himself  were  to  return  to  us 
in  all  his  glory  and  splendour,  and  if  some  one, 
opening  the  History  of  the  World,  should  read  that 
passage  about  lawns  to  him,  I  think  he  would  cry 
out:  "Oh,  but  you  have  now  gone  too  far  in  that 
direction!  Your  rooms,  your  tables,  all  the 
thousand  appointments  of  your  establishment, 
your  own  appearance,  your  hard  -  scraped  skins, 
your  conversation  suffocate  me.  Let  me  out — 
let  me  go  back  to  the  place  I  came  from ! " 


CONCERNING  LAWNS  339 

What  then  of  all  the  beautiful  things  we  say  of 
Nature?  it  may  be  asked.  Why,  only  this:  it 
amounts  to  as  much  as  all  the  beautiful  things  we 
say  about  painted  pictures,  jewels,  tapestries,  old 
lace,  Chippendale  furniture,  and  what  not.  We 
are  not  in  Nature;  we  are  out  of  her,  having  made 
our  own  conditions;  and  our  conditions  have 
reacted  upon  and  made  us  what  we  are — artificial 
creatures.  Nature  is  now  something  pretty  to  go 
and  look  at  occasionally,  but  not  too  often,  nor  for 
too  long  a  time. 

So  much  in  defence  of  my  attitude  concerning 
lawns.  There  is  no  doubt  that,  seen  at  a  right 
distance,  a  fine  country-house  or  mansion,  standing 
isolated  from  other  buildings  and  from  trees  and 
gardens,  looks  best  on  a  level  green  expanse.  At 
this  moment  I  recall  Shaw  House,  Avington  House, 
and  two  or  three  others,  but  every  reader  who 
knows  England  will  have  the  image  of  half-a-dozen 
or  more  such  buildings  in  his  mind. 

Now  I  think  that  this  grass  setting  would  be 
just  as  effective  or  more  effective  if  left  more  in  its 
natural  state.  Seen  closely,  the  smooth  lawn  is  a 
weariness  to  the  eye  like  all  smooth  monotonous 
surfaces;  like  the  smooth  or  oily  un wrinkled  sea, 
for  example,  which  the  eye  refuses  to  dwell  on;  or 
like  the  blue  sky  without  a  cloud  or  a  soaring  bird 
on  it.  Such  a  sky  may  be  good  to  be  under  but 
tiresome  to  the  vision  after  three  seconds.  If  you 
look  at  it  for  a  whole  minute,  or  for  an  hour  without 
weariness,  it  is  because  you  are  thinking  of  some- 


340     THE  BOOK  OF  A  NATURALIST 

thing,  which  means  that  you  are  occupied  with 
seeing  mental  images  and  not  the  sky.  An  acre 
or  so  of  green  linoleum  or  drugget,  drawn  evenly 
and  smoothly  over  the  ground  surrounding  a  large 
house,  would  probably  have  as  good  an  effect  as  a 
perfectly  smooth  grass  lawn.  But  into  this  question 
I  am  not  going  any  further.  I  write  about  lawns 
because  there  are  such  things,  and  I  have  to  see 
them  and  sometimes  live  in  sight  of  one.  I  have 
had  one  before  my  eyes  for  hours  this  very  day 
while  staying  at  a  friend's  house  in  the  country. 
A  week  ago  I  went  up  to  London  for  a  couple  of 
days,  and  on  my  return  my  hostess  informed  me 
that  I  had  no  sooner  left  than  the  gardener  pre- 
sented himself  before  her  to  ask  her  if  now  that  her 
visitor  had  gone  away  for  a  day  or  two  she  would 
allow  him  to  sweep  the  lawn  and  make  it  tidy. 

It  was  a  good-sized  lawn,  with  a  group  of  well- 
grown  birches  on  the  west  side,  and  one  day  in 
early  November  the  south-west  wind  blew  and 
carried  thousands  of  small  yellow  heart-shaped 
leaves  over  the  green  expanse,  making  it  beautiful 
to  look  at.  By  and  by  the  gardener  came  with  his 
abhorred  brushwood-broom  and  swept  that  lovely 
novel  appearance  away,  to  my  great  disgust.  Then 
the  blessed  wind  blew  again  and  roared  all  night, 
swaying  the  trees  and  tossing  out  fresh  clouds  on 
clouds  of  the  brilliant  little  leaves  all  over  the 
monotonous  sheet  of  green,  and  lo!  in  the  morning 
it  was  beautiful  once  more.  And  I  stood  and 
admired  it,  and  it  was  like  walking  on  a  velvet 


CONCERNING  LAWNS  341 

green  carpet  embroidered  with  heart-shaped  golden 
leaves.  Naturally,  when  I  saw  the  gardener  coming 
on  with  his  broom,  I  cried  out  aloud  and  brought 
the  lady  of  the  house  on  the  scene,  and  she  graciously 
ordered  him  off.  It  was  only  when  I  went  up  to 
town  that  he  was  allowed  to  work  his  will. 

I  now  propose  to  tell  the  story  of  another  lawn 
of  which  I  had  the  supervision  for  two  or  three 
months;  a  small  lawn  at  a  cottage  surrounded  by 
green  fields  lent  to  me  by  a  friend  one  summer 
end;  it  was  mowed  and  looked  after  generally  by 
a  man  who  came  once  a  week  from  the  village, 
and  he  also  had  the  garden  to  see  after.  In  July 
and  August,  when  the  sun  was  low  enough  to 
allow  one  to  sit  out  of  doors  and  of  the  shade  of 
trees  I  lounged  and  read  and  drank  my  tea  there, 
and  noticed  that  it  was  abundantly  sprinkled  with 
plantains.  Now  I  don't  mind  plantains  on  a  lawn 
because,  as  I  have  already  said  and  ingeminated, 
lawns  are  nothing  to  me  unless  flowers  are  allowed 
to  blossom  and  leaves  blown  from  coloured  woods 
to  lie  on  them,  but  I  remembered  my  friends  who 
had  lent  me  their  paradisaical  retreat  with  its 
green  lawn  from  which,  idhng  in  my  canvas  chair, 
I  looked  on  a  green  valley  and  a  swift  chalk  stream 
with  coots  and  moorhens  disporting  themselves  on 
it,  and  beautiful  hanging  woods  beyond.  I  remem- 
bered them,  and  in  my  desire  to  do  something  to 
express  my  gratitude  I  said  I  would  clear  this  one 
lawn  of  its  plantains. 

Going  to  the  tool-house,  I  found  a  long,  narrow, 


342     THE  BOOK  OF  A  NATURALIST 

sharp-pointed  trowel,  which  was  just  what  I  wanted, 
and  also  saw  there  an  important-looking  weed- 
killing  instrument  and  a  can  of  poison,  which  I 
certainly  did  not  want.  I  started  taking  up  the 
plantains,  worl:  :ng  the  trowel  down  to  the  end  of 
the  root  so  as  to  leave  nothing  of  the  tenacious 
cunning  creature  in  the  ground.  By  and  by  the 
man  from  the  village  came  and  saw  the  beginning 
of  my  work — my  little  harvest  gathered  from  four 
or  five  square  yards  of  lawn.  He  smiled,  and 
when  I  asked  him  why  he  smiled,  he  said  the  lawn 
had  been  in  that  condition  for  the  past  ten  years 
and  nothing  could  be  done  to  get  rid  of  the  plantains. 
He  couldn't  say  how  many  quarts  of  poison  had 
been  squirted  into  the  roots,  but  they  refused  to 
die,  and  so  on  and  so  forth.  On  his  next  visit  he 
found  a  huge  heap  of  uprooted  plantains  in  the 
middle  of  the  lawn,  left  there  for  his  special  benefit, 
and  not  one  growing  plantain  left  on  the  lawn. 

"  Ah,  yes,"  he  said — it  was  just  what  I  had 
expected  him  to  say — "  the  fact  is  I've  never  had 
the  time  to  do  it  properly.  Always  too  busy  with 
the  rose  garden,  and  plantains  take  a  lot  of  time, 
you  know.  Certainly  we  did  what  we  could  with 
the  weed  -  killer,  but  it  seems  it  didn't  amount 
to  much." 

What  it  amounted  to  was  this:  here  and  there 
all  about  the  lawn  were  round  brown  spots,  the 
size  of  a  crown-piece  or  larger,  where  the  grass  had 
perished  and  refused  to  grow  again.  These  un- 
sightly  spots   marked   the   places   where   plantains 


CONCERNING  LAWNS  343 

had  been  destroyed  by  the  weed-killer,  the  metal 
point  of  which  is  thrust  into  the  centre  of  the 
plant  and  the  poison  squirted  in.  Now  this  poison 
does  not  kill  the  plantain  only  but  the  roots  of  the 
grasses  as  well — hence  the  naked  brown  spots. 
How  long  does  the  poison  keep  its  potency  in  the 
moist  mould?  A  long  time,  I  should  think,  seeing 
that  these  naked  spots  were  some  months  old.  I 
also  wanted  to  know  if  the  poison  was  deadly  to 
other  forms  of  life  in  the  soil,  especially  to  earth- 
worms. To  ascertain  this  I  took  up  mould  enough 
from  one  of  the  barren  spots  to  fill  a  flower-pot, 
then  filled  a  second  flower-pot  with  mould  from 
outside  the  lawn,  then  went  to  the  rose-garden  at 
the  back  to  dig  for  worms,  and  selecting  two  full- 
grown  vigorous  specimens,  put  one  in  each  pot. 
The  following  day  I  turned  them  out  and  found 
that  the  first  one  had  lost  its  vigour,  and  not  only 
was  it  languid  in  its  motions,  but  the  colour  had 
changed  to  a  dull  pink  and  had  wholly  lost  the 
rainbow  bloom  of  the  healthy  earthworm.  There 
was  no  change  in  the  healthy  colour  and  activity 
of  the  second  worm.  I  put  them  back  in  their 
respective  pots  and  examined  them  again  next 
day:  the  first  was  dead,  its  body  a  dull  red  and 
flabby.  The  second  was  still  just  as  strong  and 
active  and  of  as  fresh  and  healthy  a  colour  as  when 
first  taken  from  the  earth. 

I  was  satisfied  that  weed-killers  are  even  more 
potent  than  I  had  thought  them.  As  a  bird-lover 
I   had    always    hated    them    on   account    of   their 


344    THE  BOOK  OF  A  NATURALIST 

destructiveness  to  the  small  birds  of  the  homestead, 
the  blackbird  and  song-thrush,  chaffinch,  robin, 
dunnock,  and  other  species  that  are  accustomed 
to  seek  for  small  morsels  on  the  gravelled  walks 
where  these  poisons  are  so  much  used  by  gardeners 
to  extirpate  the  small  hardy  weeds  that  root  them- 
selves in  such  places. 

I  didn't  pursue  the  matter  further,  and  the 
subject  of  lawns  and  earthworms  was  out  of  my 
mind  for  two  or  three  weeks  when  something 
happened  at  the  end  of  August  to  revive  my  interest 
in  it.  There  came  a  wet  day  followed  by  a  gale  of 
wind  which  lasted  a  part  of  the  night,  and  next 
morning  I  found  that  the  wind  in  its  violence  had 
well-nigh  stripped  a  row  of  young  false  acacia 
trees  growing  on  the  south  side  of  their  still  living 
green  leaves  and  sprinkled  them  abundantly  all 
over  the  lawn.  As  I  sat  out  of  doors  that  afternoon 
I  didn't  quite  like  the  disorderly  appearance  of  the 
long  green  leaves  torn  off  before  their  time  lying 
all  about  me,  and  I  took  it  into  my  head  to  sweep 
them  away,  but  when  I  set  myself  to  do  it  with 
the  brushwood  broom,  not  a  leaf  could  I  sweep 
from  its  place!  I  then  discovered  to  my  surprise 
that  the  leaves  were  all  made  fast  to  the  ground; 
every  leaf  had  been  seized  and  dragged  by  an 
earthworm  to  its  run,  the  terminal  leaflet  rolled 
up  and  pulled  into  the  hole,  but  no  further  could 
the  leaf  go,  since  the  next  two  opposite  leaflets  on 
the  stem  were  like  a  cross-bar  and  prevented  further 
progress.     In  every  Case  the  terminal  leaflet  was 


CONCERNING  LAWNS  345 

buried  and  the  rest  of  the  leaf  lying  out  on  the 
grass. 

We  know  that  earthworms  live  on  the  vegetable 
mould  in  which  they  move  and  have  their  being, 
and  nourish  themselves  by  passing  the  earth  they 
remove  in  excavating  their  tunnels  through  their 
bodies.  It  is  assumed  by  naturalists  that  they 
extract  certain  "  salts "  on  which  they  live  from 
the  soil  they  swallow.  But  as  the  worm  is  not  a 
vegetable  I  prefer  to  believe  that  they  exist  on  the 
microscopic  organisms  in  the  mould.  Be  this  as 
it  may,  the  worm  does  not  live  by  mould  alone; 
he  is  also  a  vegetable  eater  and  feeds  on  decayed 
leaves  of  trees  when  they  fall  in  his  way,  dragging 
them  into  his  hole  by  night.  But  the  leaf  he 
prefers  is  the  decayed  one,  and  it  struck  me  that 
these  lawn  worms  were  in  an  extraordinary  state 
of  leaf-hunger  to  seize  upon  and  drag  these  fresh 
living  leaves  into  their  holes  as  soon  as  the  wind 
had  torn  them  off. 

The  conclusion  I  formed  was  that  the  lawn 
earthworm  is  a  starved  worm,  and  I  began  to 
examine  and  compare  the  lawn  worms  with  those 
living  in  the  soil  away  from  the  lawn.  I  found 
that  when  I  dug  for  worms  in  the  moist  earth  in 
likely  spots  away  from  the  lawn,  the  mere  act  of 
striking  the  spade  or  fork  deep  into  the  soil  brought 
the  worms  with  a  rush  to  the  surface,  and  in  many 
instances  the  rush  was  so  rapid  that  at  the  moment 
when  the  spade  was  being  driven  deep  down  by 
the  foot,  a  big  vigorous  worm  would  appear  on  the 


346    THE  BOOK  OF  A  NATURALIST 

surface  thrusting  half  the  length  of  his  long  body 
straight  up  and  looking  like  the  round  polished 
stem  of  some  species  of  squill  or  lily  springing 
miraculously  from  the  earth.  Worms,  I  found,  are 
extraordinarily  sensitive  to  earth  vibration:  thus 
when  one  walks  upon  or  strikes  the  ground  with  a 
stick,  they  go  deeper  down;  but  when  the  vibra- 
tions come  from  beneath  or  from  the  earth  around 
them,  they  rush  to  the  surface  to  escape  from  a 
subterranean  enemy  pursuing  them  in  their  own 
element.  On  the  lawn  I  never  succeeded  in  making 
the  worms  rush  up  to  the  surface  by  striking  a 
spade  or  fork  into  the  soil;  and  when  I  dug  up  a 
number  of  worms  from  the  lawn  and  compared 
them  with  others  from  the  soil  outside,  I  found  a 
great  difference  in  them.  The  lawn  worms  were 
much  smaller  and  were  not  nearly  so  vigorous  in 
their  movements  as  the  others.  The  wonder  was 
that  worms  should  be  found  living  in  such  numbers 
in  the  lawn  soil  in  these  somewhat  unnatural 
conditions,  when  just  outside  the  lawn  there  was 
a  soil  easier  to  penetrate  and  abundance  of  decaying 
leaves  for  them  to  feed  on. 

These  incidental  observations  on  earthworms  in 
their  relation  to  lawns  caused  me  to  regret  that  I 
had  not  made  a  better  use  of  my  opportunities  of 
studying  these  creatures  on  former  occasions,  as 
it  now  appeared  to  me  that  much  yet  remains  to 
be  discovered  anent  their  habits  and  effect  on  the 
soil  and  vegetation.  My  knowledge  of  them  was 
little  more  than  that  of  the  ordinary  person,  and 


CONCERNING  LAWNS  347 

how  much  he  knows  about  the  subject  let  the 
following  incident  show. 

One  evening  I  was  with  Mr.  Frank  E.  Beddard 
at  his  club,  and  taking  advantage  of  the  occasion, 
asked  him  some  question  about  earthworms,  he 
being  the  greatest  authority  in  the  universe  on  the 
subject.  It  happened  that  another  friend  of  his, 
a  famous  angler,  was  sitting  near  and  overheard  our 
conversation. 

"  Ah,  yes — worms,"  he  said.  "  Before  I  forget 
all  about  it,  I  want  to  ask  you  if  the  worm  we  dig 
up  in  the  sand  for  bait  is  the  same  as  the  common 
earthworm." 

"  No,"  said  the  other. 

"  Well,  but  they  are  both  worms,  are  they 
not? " 

"  Yes." 

"  And  if  they  are  both  worms,  what's  the 
difference? " 

"  They  are  both  worms,  and  differ  as  much  as  a 
cat  from  a  squirrel — both  mammals." 

And  that  was  all  he  would  say:  the  subject  of 
their  differences  could  not  be  profitably  discussed 
on  that  occasion  and  with  persons  who  knew  so 
little. 

Like  everybody  else  I  had  read  Darwin's  classic, 
but  what  one  reads  does  not  inform  the  mind 
much  unless  one  observes  and  thinks  for  oneself 
at  the  same  time.  The  wonderful  story  of  the 
action  of  earthworms  on  the  earth's  surface  only 
came    home    to    me    during    the    excavations    at 


348    THE  BOOK  OF  A  NATURALIST 

Silchester,  when  year  after  year  the  pavements  and 
floors  and  foundations  of  houses  and  temples  and 
public  and  private  baths  were  uncovered  until  the 
entire  200  acres  within  the  walls  had  been  dis- 
closed. It  is  not  necessary  to  describe  here,  since 
we  have  it  all  in  Darwin,  just  how  the  worms 
succeeded  in  burying  in  a  century  or  two  all  that 
remained  of  a  ruined  Silchester — the  outside  wall 
excepted — to  a  depth  of  three  to  four  feet  beneath 
the  surface.  We  know  that  for  the  last  800  years 
the  ground  has  been  cultivated  above  the  buried 
city.  When  watching  these  excavations  I  dis- 
covered one  fact  about  worms  which  Darwin 
missed.  Among  the  best  finds  at  Silchester  were 
the  large  and  in  some  cases  uninjured  mosaic 
floors  of  the  more  important  houses,  some  of 
which  were  removed  intact  to  Reading  Museum, 
and  may  be  seen  there. 

When  one  of  these  fine  large  floors  was  un- 
covered it  remained  in  situ  until  the  late  autumn, 
when  it  was  taken  up  and  removed.  Observing 
these  floors,  after  they  had  been  washed  and  scrubbed 
until  they  looked  as  fresh  as  if  made  yesterday 
instead  of  nigh  on  twenty  centuries  ago,  it  surprised 
me  to  find  that  worms  were  quite  abundant  beneath 
them,  that  they  came  to  the  surface  through  small 
borings  which  were  not  noticed  unless  closely 
looked  for;  they  came  up  by  night,  and  in  the 
morning  the  workmen  had  to  sweep  the  castings 
away  to  make  the  floors  clean.  The  question  that 
suggested  itself  was:  Why  did  the  worms  continue 


CONCERNING  LAWNS  349 

to  penetrate  beneath  the  stone  and  cement  floor 
after  it  had  been  buried  so  deep  in  the  ground, 
and  when  they  had,  and  had  enjoyed  for  over  a 
thousand  years  at  the  least,  a  soil  formed  of 
vegetable  mould  as  deep  as  earthworms  require  to 
live  and  flourish  in?  A  depth  of  three  or  four  feet 
of  mould  is  as  much  as  they  require,  but  they  will, 
Darwin  says,  occasionally  go  deeper  to  five  or  six 
feet,  and  he  gives  nine  feet  as  the  greatest  depth 
at  which  they  have  been  found.  Now  at  Silchester 
I  saw  some  taken  from  a  depth  of  twenty-five  feet, 
and  very  many  at  eighteen  to  twenty  feet.  This 
was  when  the  old  Roman  wells  and  other  deep 
pits  were  cleaned  out. 

It  struck  me  that  these  Silchester  observations 
made  a  valuable  contribution  to  a  history  of  the 
earthworm's  life  habits.  For  it  should  be  borne 
in  mind  that  the  soil  covering  the  buried  city  is  a 
rich  mould,  which  has  been  under  cultivation  for 
the  last  nine  or  ten  centuries,  and  is  the  kind  of 
soil  in  which  the  earthworm  finds  his  best  con- 
ditions and  attains  his  greatest  size  and  vigour. 
Consider  next  that  the  soil  in  the  deep  pits  and 
everywhere  beneath  the  Roman  pavements  is  a 
cold,  heavy,  hardly-pressed  earth  undisturbed  for 
many  centuries,  unpierced  by  root  of  plant  or  ray 
of  sun,  and  probably  to  a  great  extent  devoid  of 
the  microbic  life  which  makes  the  upper  soil  alive. 
When  you  turn  over  this  long-buried  soil  with  the 
spade  it  has  a  heavy  damp  smell,  but  not  the 
familiar  earth-smell  of  Clodothrix  odorifera.     Yet 


350     THE  BOOK  OF  A  NATURALIST 

down  in  this  dark  dead  soil  the  worms  will  insist 
on  descending,  although  their  only  way  to  it  is 
through  the  few  small  cylindrical  holes  they  have 
succeeded  in  boring  through  the  partially  rotted 
cement  between  the  tiles,  or  where  a  minute  stone 
has  dropped  out  of  the  tesserae  pavements.  Their 
descent  into  these  difficult  places  and  down  into 
the  old  pits  involves  long  double  journeys  daily 
when  they  are  forced  to  come  up  to  deposit  their 
castings  on  the  surface. 

What  then  is  the  force  impelling  them?  Why 
do  they  leave  a  rich  feeding-ground  for  a  poor  one? 
I  take  these  facts  in  their  relation  to  other  well- 
known  facts,  as  for  example  that  of  the  quite 
extraordinary  difference  in  size  and  vigour  and 
colouring  in  the  earthworms  inhabiting  different 
soils.  They  are  like  different  species.  Let  us  take 
the  case  of  the  London  earthworm  to  be  found  in 
every  few  square  yards  of  earth  unbuilt  on,  even 
in  the  very  heart  of  the  City  itself.  Judging  from 
all  the  specimens  I  have  examined,  this  worm 
attains  to  about  half  the  full  normal  size  and  is 
comparatively  languid  in  his  movements  and  rarely 
exhibits  the  brilliant  play  of  colours  seen  in  the 
large  country  worm  in  rich  soil — the  colour  which 
is  the  sign  of  intensity  of  life.  Doubtless  he  was 
once  a  big  vigorous  worm,  but  that  was  long  ago 
in  an  old  London,  or  Londineum,  and  he  has  had 
ample  time  to  degenerate.  In  this  state  he  is  now 
biding  his  time,  under  our  feet,  and  his  time  will 
come    when    our    seven    millions    have    faded    or 


CONCERNING  LAWNS  351 

drifted  away;  then  indeed  he  will  recover  his 
power,  and  slowly,  patiently,  unhasting  and  un- 
resting, day  and  night,  year  by  year,  century 
after  century,  he  will  labour  to  sink  away  brick 
and  stone  beneath  the  surface  and  cover  it  all  with 
a  deep  rich  mould  and  a  mantle  of  everlasting 
verdure. 

Then  we  have  the  earthworms  inhabiting  heaths 
and  all  sandy  soils  throughout  the  land.  They  are 
no  better  than  the  London  earthworms.  One  day 
last  autumn  I  found  the  gardener  at  the  house  in 
a  pine  wood  where  I  was  staying  at  Ascot  digging 
potatoes.  I  took  a  spade  and  went  to  him  and 
started  digging  for  worms  at  his  side.  There  was 
a  magnificent  crop  of  potatoes,  as  it  has  been 
everywhere  this  autumn  of  1918,  but  the  earth- 
worms we  turned  up  were  few  in  number  and  very 
poor  specimens.  "  It  is  useless,"  said  the  gardener, 
"  to  look  for  a  big  worm  here — I  never  see  one.  It 
is  the  sand  that  starves  them." 

I  am  not  sure  that  this  is  a  sufficient  explana- 
tion: in  the  rich  soils  in  these  highly  cultivated 
gardens  in  this  heath  and  pine  district  where 
wealthy  people  have  their  homes,  the  worms,  one 
would  think,  must  find  sufficient  nourishment.  It 
is  more  probable  that  their  poor  condition  is  due 
to  something  inimical  to  earthworms  in  the  sand 
itself. 

On  the  chalk,  where  the  soil  is  thin,  as  in  the 
sheep-walks,  the  earthworms  are  comparatively 
small  in  size,  but  vigorous  and  quick  in  their  move- 


352    THE  BOOK  OF  A  NATURALIST 

ments  amidst  the  interlacing  fibrous  roots  of  the 
close  turf.  In  the  hollow  places  between  the  hills, 
where  a  deeper  soil  has  been  formed,  the  worms 
attain  to  their  full  size — all  which  goes  to  show 
that  chalk  itself  is  not  inimical  to  worms.  In 
heavy  clays  the  appearance  of  the  worms  show  that 
the  conditions  are  not  favom-able. 

Thus  we  see  that  earthworms  are  perpetually 
invading  and  peophng  all  soils,  good  and  bad; 
also  that  if  you  have  a  piece  of  hard  ground  barren 
of  food  for  worms  and  free  of  worms,  where  for 
long  years  they  have  not  been  permitted  to  exist, 
they  will  constantly  flow  in  from  all  the  surrounding 
rich  soils  where  worms  abound  and  flourish  in  order 
to  get  possession  of  it.  The  cause,  I  take  it,  is  that 
the  earthworm  abhors  the  soil  frequented  by  other 
worms,  which  is  impregnated  with  the  acid  the 
worm  secretes  and  discharges  into  the  soil.  The 
acid  spoils  the  ground  for  him,  and  he  prefers  to  go 
outside  into  the  most  barren  and  unsuitable  places 
to  remaining  in  it.  And  the  perpetual  desire 
to  get  away  and  seek  pastures  new  is  the  reason 
of  the  wide  distribution  of  the  earthworm,  of  its 
universality,  so  that  there  is  not  a  clod  on  the 
surface  of  the  earth  without  a  worm  for  inhabitant. 

Three  or  four  days  after  witnessing  the  remark- 
able phenomenon  I  described  some  pages  back — 
the  rush  of  hungry  earthworms  to  secure  a  windfall 
of  leaves  torn  before  their  time  from  the  trees  and 
consequently  not  well  suited  to  their  masticating 
powers — I  pa\d  a  visit  at  a  country-house  a  few  miles 


CONCERNING  LAWNS  353 

away,  and  found  there  one  of  the  finest  lawns  I  had 
ever  seen.  The  old  Georgian  house  was  built  on  an 
eminence  overlooking  the  valley  and  stood  in  the 
centre  of  a  square  and  perfectly  flat  piece  of  ground, 
which  was  all  lawn;  then  the  ground  sloped  on 
all  sides  to  a  terrace,  and  slope  and  terrace  were  all 
lawn  too  and  one  with  the  level  ground  above. 
The  great  extent  and  marvellous  smoothness  of 
this  lawn  filled  me  with  admiration — when  I  saw 
it  at  a  distance;  but  I  no  sooner  set  foot  on  it 
than  I  began  to  quarrel  with  it.  To  begin  with, 
the  ground  was  hard;  there  was  no  elastic,  no 
real  turf;  it  was  like  walking  on  flagstones.  Noth- 
ing but  grass  grew  on  that  lawn,  not  in  a  matted 
turf,  but  each  grass  or  grass  plant  by  itself,  so 
that  when  looking  closely  down  at  one's  feet 
one  saw  the  hard  ground  between  the  blades  and 
roots.  On  all  that  ground  there  was  not  a  daisy 
to  be  seen,  nor  any  of  the  small  creeping  plants 
and  clovers  usually  found  on  lawns. 

Before  my  visit  was  over  I  succeeded  in  getting 
hold  of  the  gardener  and  asked  him  how  he  managed 
to  keep  his  large  lawn  so  clean  and  smooth.  Ke 
took  it  that  I  was  praising  his  work  and  began  to 
tell  me  what  a  tremendous  task  it  was  to  keep  it  in 
that  perfect  condition. 

"  But  I  think,"  said  I,  "  that  if  you  would  call 
in  the  earthworms  to  help  you  and  did  less  yourself 
you  would  have  a  better  lawn." 

At  first  he  thought  I  was  joking  and  was  much 
amused.     Earthworms,   he   assured   me,   were   the 


354    THE  BOOK  OF  A  NATURALIST 

worst  enemies  of  lawns — they  made  such  a  mess! 
His  greatest  trouble  was  to  keep  them  down.  He 
was  always  going  round  with  a  bucket  of  brine, 
particularly  about  the  lower  borders,  where  they 
were  always  trying  to  come  in,  and  poured  the 
brine  down  their  holes.  Brine  was  the  best  worm- 
killer  he  knew;  and  the  result  of  his  care  and  use 
of  it  was  that  you  wouldn't  be  able  to  find  a  worm 
on  all  that  immense  lawn. 

I  asked  him  if  he  could  not  understand  that  it 
was  no  pleasure  to  walk  or  sit  or  lie  on  a  lawn 
where  the  ground  was  always  dry  and  hard  in  spite 
of  all  the  watering  he  gave  it.  To  walk  on  his 
lawn  tired  and  depressed  me,  whereas  on  the 
chalk-hill  behind  the  house  I  could  walk  miles  with 
pure  delight,  simply  because  it  was  a  close-matted 
turf  and  was  felt  beneath  the  feet  like  a  pile-carpet 
drawn  over  a  thick  rubber  floor.  It  lifted  me  when 
I  walked  on  it,  and  was  better  than  the  most 
luxurious  couch  to  lie  on,  to  say  nothing  of  the 
pleasure  one  received  from  the  sight  of  its  Small 
gem-like  flowers  and  from  its  aromatic  scent.  As 
to  the  castings,  they  were  unpleasant  only  when 
the  lawn  was  wet  in  the  morning,  and  only  then 
when  the  grass  was  too  thin.  You  do  not  see  the 
castings  on  the  thick  turf  on  the  downs,  although 
if  you  take  up  a  sod  you  find  earthworms  at  the 
roots  in  abundance. 

Well,  he  answered,  a  lawn  could  not  have  a  turf 
like  a  chalk-hill  fed  by  sheep,  because — such  a  turf 
wasn't  the  right  one  for  a  lawn  to  have.    Then,  as 


CONCERNING  LAWNS  355 

this  seemed  a  rather  poor  argument,  he  suddenly 
brightened  up  and  said:  "And  what  about  the 
moles?  Do  you  know  that  with  a  large  lawn  like 
this,  with  grass  fields  all  round  it,  you  are  always 
in  danger  of  getting  a  mole — that  is  to  say  if  there 
are  any  earthworms  to  attract  him.  And  a  mole 
can  disfigure  a  lawn  as  much  as  if  you  had  made  a 
furrow  with  a  plough  across  it." 

No  doubt  he  was  right  there;  but  when  I  said 
that  moles  could  be  kept  out  by  sinking  a  rabbit 
net  to  a  depth  of  two  or  three  feet  beneath  the 
surface  and  would  save  a  lot  of  labour  and  expense, 
he  only  smiled  and  shook  his  head. 

The  gardener,  like  the  gamekeeper,  is  never  a 
person  who  will  allow  you  to  teach  him  anything, 
but  after  our  conversation  I  was  more  convinced 
than  ever  that  it  would  be  better  for  the  lawn  if, 
instead  of  killing  and  starving  the  worms,  we  were 
to  feed  them  and  allow  them  to  make  and  keep 
a  turf. 

With  this  idea  in  my  mind  I  tried  a  fresh  experi- 
ment. I  pegged  out  a  strip  of  the  lawn  at  the 
cottage,  about  ten  feet  wide,  and  ran  a  cord  on  each 
side  to  keep  it  distinct  from  the  rest  of  the  ground, 
and  over  that  strip  I  sprinkled  leaves  from  the 
acacia  and  other  trees  abundantly.  I  examined  the 
ground  on  the  follov/ing  day  and  saw  no  change. 
Leaves  were  still  lying  thickly  on  the  ground,  and 
it  was  impossible  to  tell  whether  any  had  been 
carried  away  or  not.  The  next  day  it  was  the 
same.    On  the  morning  of  the  third  day  there  was 


356     THE  BOOK  OF  A  NATURALIST 

something  new  to  note:  it  looked  as  if  the  worms 
inhabiting  the  quartered-off  ground  had  suddenly- 
developed  a  wonderful  vigour  and  activity,  or  as 
if  a  rush  of  worms  from  all  over  the  lawn  to  that 
favoured  spot  had  taken  place.  The  ground  was 
thickly  sprinkled  over  with  castings,  mostly  under 
the  herbage,  although  after  a  careful  search  I  could 
not  find  a  single  casting  anyivhere  else  on  the  lawn. 
It  was  evident  that  the  worms  had  been  taking  the 
leaves  into  their  runs  and  feeding  greedily  on  them, 
and  I  confidently  expected  that  the  result  would 
be  that  in  a  little  while  the  turf  on  the  marked 
strip  of  ground  would  be  thicker,  greener,  more 
elastic  to  the  tread.  Unfortunately  I  was  obliged 
to  leave  the  place  when  the  experiment  was  just 
at  its  beginning,  so  that  nothing  was  proved;  and 
I  hope  that  some  reader  of  this  paper,  who  possesses 
a  lawn,  or  is  about  to  form  one,  will  carry  the 
matter  further  and  try  to  find  out  whether  or  not 
a  better  result  may  be  had  by  encouraging  the 
earthworms  to  w^ork  with  and  for  us  instead  of 
regarding  them  as  enemies  and  trying  to  suppress 
them. 


INDEX 


Acherontia  atropas,  217-19 
Adders,  the  quest  of,  15 ;  dreaming 

of,  19;   reasons   for  not  killing, 

20-28;    swallowing   their    young, 

21;    measuring,    25;    capturing, 

28-9;  beautiful  colours  in,  29-32 
Adder-stone,   16 
Agouti,  beauty  of  the,  288 
Aldebaran,    an    intelligent    visitor 

from,  37-40 
Aldermaston,    snake    preserve    at, 

17 
Ants,  a  danger  to  fledgelings,  5-6; 

9-10;  13-14 
Aquihgta.    See  Columbine 
Ardea  cinerea  and  A.  cocoi.    See 

Heron 
Arnold,   Matthew,  serpent  poetry 

of,     195-7;    lines     on    fritiUary, 

331 

Badger,  encounter  with  a,  51-2 
Barrett,  Charles,  on  ants  destroy- 
ing fledgelings  in   Australia,   14 
Bastard   balm,   beauty   and   rarity 

of  the,  327 
Bats,  Pliny  on,  33;  genealogy  of, 
33-6;  how  Nature  made,  37-40; 
ferocity  of,  41-2;  migration, 
42-4;  sense  organs,  44-6;  Cuvier 
and  Spallanzani  on  extra  senses 
in,  45-8;  J.  G.  Millais  on  facul- 
ties of,  49 
Beddard,  Dr.  F.  E.,  an  authority 

on  earthworms,  347 
Bell's    British    Quadrupeds,    cam- 
paign against  moles   related  in, 
116 
Bicho  moro.     See  Blister-beetle 
Birds,  stories  about,  74-83 
Bird's-foot  trefoil,  on  a  prehistoric 

earthwork,  323-5 
Blister-beetle,  ravages  of  the,  309; 
appearance  and  smell  of,  309;  a 
rapacious  fly  enemy  of,  311 
Book  of  the  Serpent,  a,  186 
Breydon  Water,  herons  fishing  in, 
102 


Britton,  J.,  a  story  of  a  fox  told 
by,  56 

Browne,  Sir  Thomas,  on  fear  of 
serpents,  178 

Browning,  grandfather  of  the 
poet,  330 

Byron,  potato  with  vinegar  de- 
voured by,  308 

Caius,   Dr.,   the    British    dogs    of, 

250 
Cantharides,  309 

Cat,  friendship  of,  with  rat,  234-7 
Chaucer,  318 

Chequered  dafl'odil.    See  FritiUary 
Chillingham,  the  white  bull  of,  his 

low     place     in     the     scheme    of 

things,  34    - 
Chinchilla,   beauty   and    grace   of, 

287 
Clodothrix  odorifera,  349 
Cobbe,    Miss    Frances    Power,    an 

admirer  of  Schopenhauer,  292 
Columbine,  the   blue,  in   England, 

328-31 
Cormorant  struggling  with  eel,  98; 

as  a  pet,  233 
Crotalus    durissus,   New    England 

rattlesnaJie,  206 
Cuvier,  on  senses  of  bats,  45-8 

Daisies,  on  old  Roman  Road,  322 
Danish     farmer,     imaginary     con- 
versation with  a  Wiltshire  pig- 
keeper,  298-9 
Darwin,     on    the    origin    of    the 
domestic    dog,    275;    on    earth- 
worms, 348-9 
Daw,  history  of  a  tame,  77-8 
Death  by  accident  in  wild  life,  96 
Death's-head  moth,   seen   in  num- 
bers, 217-19 
Demeter,  the  Corn  Mother,  312 
Dog,  the  little  red,  character  and 

anecdotes  of,  238-46 
Dogs,    friendly    with    Iamb,    128; 
eff^ect  of  muzzling  order  on,  247- 
264;  artificial  instincts  in,  272 


357 


358    THE  BOOK  OF  A  NATURALIST 


Dolichotis,    a    Patagonian    rodent, 

287 


Earthworms,  effect  of  weed-killer 
on,  343;  habits  of,  in  relation 
to  lawns,  345-6;  London,  350- 
351;  heath  and  sandy  soil,  a51; 
chalk  soil,  351-2;  cause  of  wide 
distribution  of,  352-6 
Elsie  Venner  Infelix,  209 
Epicauta  adspersa.  See  Blister- 
beetle 


Fayrer,  Sir  Joseph,  a  great  ophio- 
logist,  197 

Fer-de-lance,  an  impression  of  the, 
X88 

Flea,  origin  of  the,  36 

Flowers,  beauty  and  charm  of 
wild,  316;  adorning  waste  lands 
and  ruins,  322;  on  an  old  Roman 
road,  323;  on  a  prehistoric 
earthwork,  323-6;  rare  and  lo- 
cal, 326 

Fox,  beauty  of  the,  60-54;  senti- 
ment concerning  the,  66;  a 
South  American  music-loving, 
68;  adventures  of  a  three- 
legged,  59-62 

Fox  terrier,  character  of  the,  263 

Fritillary,  appearance  of,  seen 
growing  in  profusion,  331-4; 
beauty   and   singularity   of  the. 


Geranium,    G.    pyrevaicum,    327; 

the  blue,  327 
Ghost-moth,  dance  of  the,  221-2 
Glanville,  Ernest,  on  the  African 

Icanti,  158-9 
Gioat's-beard,    various    folk-names 

of,    317-18;    singular    habit    of, 

318-22 
Gould,  earliest  writer  on  habits  of 

ants,  251 
Grass  of  Parnassus,  beauty  of  the, 

327 
Grey,    Viscount,    squirrels    tamed 

by,  233 
Guanaco,  a  pet,  in  Patagonia  and 

its  habits,  125 
Guinea    (or    Ginny)    flower.     See 

Fritillary 
Guira  cuckoo,  a  mouse-killer,  97 


Hake,  Dr.  Gordon,  serpent  poetry 
of,  197-200 

Hawk-moths,  217;  death's-head, 
217-19;  crimson  underwing,  219- 
221;  humming-bird,  222-4 

Hawthorne,  Nathaniel,  character 
of  his  genius,  203-4;  in  search 
of  a  weed,  338 

Heron,  bathing,  93;  strange  ad- 
venture with  a,  94-6;  flight  of 
the,  103;  a  ghostly  bird,  104;  as 
a  table-bird,  106-12 

Heronry,  a  great,  47 

Holmes,  Oliver  Wendell,  story  of 
a  serpent  girl,  201-9 

Hopley,  Miss  C.  C,  on  the  ser- 
pent's tongue,  139;  her  pet  slow- 
worm,  233 

Horse,  habit  of  a  tamed  wild,  119- 
122;  twitching  muscle  in  the, 
229 

House-martin,  accidentally  killed, 
98 

Humming-bird,  flight  in  the,  47; 
hawk-moth,  222-4 

Huxley,  on  monographs,  190 

Icanti,  African  serpent  myth,  169 

James,  Henry,  on  living  in  a  pine 

wood,  3 
John-go-to-bed-at-noon,      singular 

habit  of,  316 

Keats,  serpent  poetry  of,  200 
Kidd,       Benjamin,       humble-bees 
tamed  by,  232,  280 

Lacepede,    on    the    serpent's   uses, 

136 
Lagidium,  an  Andean  rodent,  287 
Lang,   Andrew,   on   drawing-room 

dogs,  292-4 
Lawns,    feeling    about,    337;     Sir 

Walter    Raleigh    quoted,    337-8; 

in  relation  to  earthworms,  340- 

344 
Leibnitz,  on  a  talking  dog,  279 
Lemurs,  beauty  and  docility  of  the, 

286-7 
Lindsay,  Dr.  Lauder,  Mental  Evo- 
lution quoted,  279;  on  the  dog's 

spiritual  nature,  288 
Long,    Sir    Walter,    dog-muzzling 

order  of,  262 


INDEX 


359 


Luys,  Dr.,  the  revolving  mirror  of, 
149 

Macroglossa  stellatarum,  224 

Maize  Mother,  ancient  worship  of 
the,  312 

Mallow,  geranium-leafed  scented, 
327 

Marmoset,  charm  of  the  domesti- 
cated, 285 

Marmot,  the  prairie,  287-8 

Mental   evolution   of   animals,  281 

Merry-lee-dance -a-pole,  folk-name 
of  a  hawk-moth,  222 

Millais,  J.  G.,  on  the  senses  of 
bats,  49 

Mole,  whether  injurious  or  not, 
113-18;  persecution  of  the,  in 
France,  116;  impending  de- 
struction of  the,  116;  the  stren- 
uous, 225-7;  twitching  muscle  of 
the,  227-31 

Morris,  Mowbray,  on  dogs  and 
their  detractors,  291 

Mother  of  the  Waters,  the  myth- 
ical serpent,  169 

Mu8  decumanus,  233 

Mushrooms,  growing  in  rings,  164 

Natterjack,  music  of  the,  89 
Nunn,  Mr.  Joseph,  the  sparrow's 
friend,  114 

Origin  of  Species,  214 
Owl,   its    supernatural   reputation, 
165 

Painted  snipe,  caught  in  a  mussel- 
shell,  99 

Peaches   and  peach-stones,  307 

Pig,  social  disposition  of  the,  295; 
a  friendly,  297-302;  a  forest 
animal,  298;  eating  elder-ber- 
ries, 301 

Pine-snake,  beauty  and  motions  of 
the,  155 

Pine  woods,  effect  of  living  in,  1; 
wild  life  in,  4-14 

Pipit,   a   fascinated,   149 

Potato,  the  wild,  303;  cultivated, 
304;  eaten  with  oil  and  vinegar, 
307;  ravages  of  the  blister- 
beetle,  309-11;  Mother  of  the, 
312;  manner  of  cooking  the,  in 
England,  313;  what  the  doctors 
say,  314 


Raleigh,  Sir  Walter,  a  shining 
Elizabethan,  312;  his  praise  of 
gardens  and  lawns,  337-8 

Rat,  the  xmloved,  233;  friendship 
wi:h  cat,  234-7 

Rice  Mother,  312 

Romanes,  Dr.,  Mental  Evolution 
of  Animals,  281 

Rooks,  their  loose  social  law,  79- 
83 

Royal  Society  for  the  Protection 
of  Birds:  Bird  and  Tree  Day 
essays  by  school  children,  6 

Ruskin,  on  the  serpent's  tongue, 
134;  on  the  serpent  myth,  153; 
on  serpent  motions,  154 

Russell,  Dr.,  of  Brighton,  1 

Sanchoniathan,  the  Phoenician, 
153,  191 

Savernake  Forest,  a  fox  in,  62 

Seal  and  conger  eel,  duel  between, 
98 

Selous,  on  instinctive  fear  in 
horses,  176 

Serpent,  use  of  its  tongue,  134-52; 
myths  of  a  great,  158-9,  169-71; 
strangeness,  153;  origin  and 
universality  of  worship,  161; 
instinctive  fear  of  the,  174-8; 
Satanic  theory,  178-80;  a  Book 
of  the,  186-91;  the,  in  literature, 
191 

Sheep,  individuality  in,  123;  a 
book-destroying,  124;  a  friend 
of  dogs,  127 

Sheldrake,  beauty  of  the,  198 

Shelley,  his  Witch  of  Atlas,  157 

Silchester,  the  forest  of,  84;  exca- 
vation at,  347-9 

Snake,  a  preserver  of  the,  16; 
taming  a  wild,  91-2;  a  frog- 
hunter,  144;  shyness,  192;  a 
tame,  280 

Spallanzani,  experiments  on  bats, 
45-8 

Sparrow-hawks,  in  pine  wood,  4,  7 

Spider,  strategy  of  hunting,  146; 
as  a  pet,  232 

Squirrel,  fable  of  a,  63-9;  adven- 
tures of  a  migrating,  70-73; 
migratory  impulses,  70;  taming 
the,  233;  volatile  character  of 
the,  286 

Stradling,  Dr.  Arthur,  on  the 
serpent's  tongue,  139 


360    THE  BOOK  OF  A  NATURALIST 


stag,      lower       than      the       bat, 

34 
Starlings,  killed  hy  sparrow-hawk, 

8 
Stoat,  a  water-vole  hunting,  86 

Tabley,  Lord  de,  ghost-moth  po- 
etry of,  222 

Tehuelches,  children  of  the  Pata- 
gonian,   163 

Thoreau,  on  the  squirrel,  286;  his 
"handful  of  rice,"  297 

Throstle,  desire  for  worms  of  the 
caged,  75-7 

Toad,  the,  as  traveller,  84-9;  con- 
cert music  and  marriage  cus- 
toms, 88-9;  pleased  to  be  ca- 
ressed, 90;  tongue  and  fly-catch- 
ing of,  90-1 

Traherne,  the  Herefordshire  mys- 
tic, 224 

Tregarthen,  J.  C,  anecdotes  of 
fox  and  otters  reared  with 
hounds,  132 


Twitching    muscle,    mole,    228-31; 

dog,  228;  horse,  229;  man,  229- 

230;    hare,   231 
Tyndall  and  Hindhead,  1 
Tyrant-bird,  rapacious  habits  of  a, 

*97 

Vernal  squill,  first  appearance  of, 

327 
Viper,   Vipera  berus.     See  Adder 
Vizcacha,  accoimt  of  the,  130 

Wasps,    spiteful    temper,    210-12; 
brilliant     colouring,     213;     dia- 
bolical  instincts   of,   214 
Waterton,  on  heron's  fishing,  93 
White,  Gilbert,  on  a  tame  snake, 

280 
Willughby,  the  ornithologist,  250 
Wright,  Sir  Almroth,  on  our  skin- 
scraping  habit,  338 

Youatt,  on  a  strange  dog  super- 
stition, 277 


THE   END 


North  Carolina  State  University  Libraries 

QH81  .H877 

BOOK  OF  A  NATURALIST 


III  II  III 

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